Reason Thirteen: 100 Greatest Rock Songs

It's been awhile since I blogged about my secret desires of marrying a gay man, not that I haven't had plenty of HH exploits to share with the world. HH recently read my posts and finds it hysterical in the same vein of ignorant arrogance that George W. Bush exhibits.

And the same arrogance that many rock starts seem to have about their late eighties hair and makeup. Recently VH1 did a 5 part special about the 100 Greatest Rock Songs. Thanks to DVR, HH recorded all 5 hours for later viewing. I thought HH might watch these alone. I was wrong. We had to spent two evenings, watching brief clips and deciding whether or not we agreed. This was an important decision for HH, not that anyone will ever know of care if he agrees or not.

I will admit that HH is knowledgeable about rock music. This is useful for trivia nights. This is useful for, well, not much else.

HH has many assertions about music. All women hate Rush. "The Stroke" is Billy Squier's worst song but the only one that people know. John Denver is awesome. (Yes, you read that right.) HH is also particular in a way that is increasingly irritating, especially when it comes to purchasing music for him. A while back, HH decided that he wanted a W.A.S.P. CD. I had no idea who they were, but he doesn't know who many of my favorite bands are so that is fair. After what seemed like 6 months of him trying to decide which album he wanted, my time was running out to get it from Amazon on time and I chose "The Best of the Best 1984-2000." This was, of course, wrong. AND, he let me know it as soon he opened it. How could I not know what their best songs were? How could I not know that these were "cheeseball" songs?

Again, I want to stress that I do not believe that all gay men have the same characteristics, likes and dislikes. My imaginary gay husband is who I write about. The man that would not only have an iPod full of pop and show tunes, but that would also know the appropriate way to do the hand jive. The man who would rather watch a Real Housewives marathon than devote time to assessing the merits of a rock songs list. The man who would, above all, know the difference between Hair and Hairspray.

Reason Twelve: Weapons of Mass Annoyance

I had to take about 6 photos of this cannon while on vacation. HH was insistent that we get just the right angle while we sweated atop a hill in the Bahamas. I didn't even care about this stupid fort and never really quite understood it's importance in Bahamian history but HH was obsessed with this cannon.

I shouldn't have been surprised. HH has a serious weapons affection that should cause me to worry. Due to the fact that I find psychological reasoning for everything (yes, everything) I have come to believe that it is some extension of the hetero man's obsession with his own penis. Why else would most weapons have a long shaft?

HH watches the Military Channel as though he is preparing for combat some day. I often have to watch a clip of some explosive or military formation and be expected to be impressed. I am not. I do not plan on needing the knowledge of where things are on a submarine or what level of damage various weapons can provide.

So, I am forced to consider the obvious phallic nature of weapons, the imagery of explosions in many films when trying to convey sexual pleasure, and the mere existence of a Military Channel, which mostly shows the aforementioned weapons, explosions, and the most spectacularly choreographed routines, I mean military formations, in history. I am also forced to consider HHs affection for these things.

I don't know how dream gay husband would feel about weapons. I would hope he would have some "Make Love Not War" flair on his Facebook page. I would hope that the weapon he treasured most was sarcastic wit. I would hope would rather be looking at designer knock offs at the straw market instead of a canon.

Reason Eleven: Constant Power

I doubt that there are many homes in America that have the "right" amount of extension cords. Most that I have seen either have too many or not enough or they don't have the right ones that they need. There are not many times that you really need an extension cord. Christmas lights, indoor and out. The occasional need to use a power tool. The odd thing that you need power to in the middle of the room.



Our house is the home to way too many cords. This is just a small assortment of the cords that we have. I have had to dig into it exactly once. Yes, this mess of cords irritates me. Yet, there is something even more irritating about the electrical nightmare.



If someone had to guess where this pile was, they might say a closet, an extra bedroom, the shed. If only I could say that any of these was the location. Instead, our extension cords live in the dining room. Now, even the dining room might make sense if we had a formal one which we never used. Instead, our living room and dining room are one great room. So, I am lucky enough to see extension cord island from just about 50% of vantage points in my house. I am one lucky woman.

A fairly constant theme in this blog is that of complete disconcern for the appearance of anything. And, you guessed it, this is another. I find it hard to comprehend whether this lack of concern is simply an HH thing or if it is secretly an attempt to gain and/or maintain power within the household. Is the constant complaining about needing more space a residual genetic effect of some ancestral homesteader or is it just something to do to avoid going through the 20 boxes he hasn't unpacked since we moved in? Is HH a hoarder or is keeping all of this stuff his way of asserting his identity in the relationship?

I doubt that I will ever know the answer to these questions. But what I do know is that if you need an extension cord, I have plenty.

Reason Ten: Dining Out

A big pile of weiners. I won't go into the many tasteless jokes that I could about that, but I will go into an incredible difference between HH and I.

A while ago, we got to sit in his company's luxury box for a pre-season football game. As a non- red meat eater, I was worried that I should eat something first for fear that burgers and hot dogs would be the only dinner available. Well, I was wrong, there were chicken strips but there was also a ridiculous amount of hotdogs. For about 15 people, out THIRD container of hotdogs included about 50. Another wife and I were shocked that a) they would bring so many hotdogs and b) that the stupid men had ordered more at anout $6.00 per person.

HH chowed down on, oh I don't know 5 hotdogs. Yuck. But HH is perfectly content to eat hotdogs - HH eats carrot sticks with barbeque sauce. HH thinks Chevy's is a REALLY nice dinner out.

I wouldn't say that I am hard to impress. I like good food, it doesn't have to be gourmet or even fancy, but sometimes, it would be nice to go somewhere that doesn't include sweatpants in its dress code.

Thankfully, HH is fairly easily swayed so I could pick any restaurant. Getting him to not wear a t-shirt is another story. Getting him to not make a shocked face when the bill comes would be comparable to ending the war (or peacetime mission or whatever it is supposed to be) in Iraq. I yearn for a day when he suggests going to a hip, local mexican restaurant with a good patio and better guacamole. I dream of white tablecloths and more than one fork. I pray that one day, HH will see eating out as more as an opportunity to locate an even better buffet.

Reason Nine: Motor Vehicles

While I have come to understand a great deal about HH during our time together, one thing that I will never understand is his extreme infatuation with motor vehicles.

I am certain that HH has spent more time talking about his truck during our relationship than has doing anything else. Checking his oil is a weekly priority, he is constantly changing the flashlight that is kept in my car, and sometimes we just have to talk about how everyone is jealous of his truck.

Gay men want a certain body; a friend once told me about his quest for large shoulders and a small waist. HH's priorities lie in his horsepower, not in his measurements. I am often asked what my car's horsepower is as if I can remember (I don't even know my dad's house phone number thanks to my cell phone.) I am expected to know what my tire pressure is at any given time. I am also quizzed on such things as hemis and cold air intake. Although HH seems to know a lot about cars, when my engine was recently clicking and my AC not cooling properly, he wanted me to just wait until next summer even though a simple can of freon was the answer (which I had taken care of on my own.). Once, however, after he installed something that was supposed to give him more power and it was making a funny noise, we had to pull over every ten minutes to listen better.

So while he quizzes me on my car, his truck is his oxygen. We can be in the middle of a conversation and he will walk out into the garage to look at it without warning. My car must be driven to any place or event that is deemed to have any possibility of car theft or damage. Before we got married, HH promised me a few things: he would cut the grass (which he usually does), he would clean up dog waste (we no longer have a dog), and he would make sure that my car always had an oil change and gas. I have gotten zero oil changes out of him, despite my complaints that the guy at the oil change place is creepy and he took my car to fill it up...once. Whether this was all a lie or he is simply too busy looking at his truck, I have yet to figure it out.

Unfortunately, his obsession goes beyond his own vehicle. On vacation, we often end up places looking at cars; I can say that I have seen the General Lee at a "museum" in Gatlinburg, TN. While in Vegas, I spent two days arguing against renting some sports car and just last weekend, we ended up at some boat race at the lake where I was forced to identify engine parts. Earlier in the summer, we went to a baseball game for "camera day". We got there much too late to even dream about getting on the field to get pictures of/with players so we headed to the club which overlooks the highway. The next hour or so was spent taking pictures of various cars and, as though it was a modern marvel, tractor trailers passing by. He would time it to get the right angle, make sure you could read the truck, etc. Yet, if I take a picture of, say a gorgeous flower in another country, I am insane and wasting a picture.

I don't know what I would prefer for HH to be obsessed with. Of course, I appreciate that he can at least keep cars running (arguably.) But would I prefer being quizzed on how to get a smaller waist?

Reason Eight: Cleanliness

A friend recently asked me if I truly believed that all gay men were the clean, rational, fashionable people that I purport that they are on this blog. Of course not. My fictional gay husband, however, is.

I once lived with a gay man that left opened cans of peaches on the living room table for weeks, had questionable fluids on his walls, and wasn't all too angered when I made him a dirty ashtray candle as a joke. He also wrapped himself with an ace bandage to appear thinner under his wife beater and ruined a kettle made for sitting on top of a wood burning stove for humidity after making tea for a friend one night. That friend is no longer with us, but when I think how much he would have not made the ideal gay husband, I have to giggle. In addition to these "flaws" though, he told a mean story, was always ready for an impromptu barbecue and, most importantly, understood that even if you are a slob, you should clean up if people are coming over.

Now, this is one trait that I wished that HH had. Despite my constant nagging about keeping the house, at the least, presentable if someone would happen to come over, HH seems to think that leaving five pairs of shoes in the living room is necessary. Above, you see HH's pair of brown dress shoes that he obtained by trading a football jersey with some man at work (I am not making this up.) HH wears these shoes about 4 times a year, but when he does, they take permanent residence on the living room floor for at least three weeks. This is added to a pair of indoor slippers, outdoor slippers, work boots, tennis shoes, summer sandals, and an old, old pair of shoes that are worn while playing drums once or twice a month. Now, when we get a call that someone is on their way, HH does not simply carry them upstairs to the closet. Instead, they are pushed against the wall or hidden in a nook. Because people obviously want to sit in a room full of your stinky shoes.

I do not try to argue that I am the cleanest person alive, but I do see the need for dusting. Not too long ago, HH told me that dusting once or twice a year wasn't a bad idea. When we first started dating, he confessed that he hadn't cleaned his kitchen floor in 4 years - the floor that I walked barefoot on. While I mopped it, though, I realized why we needed indoor slippers. I have now come to believe that HH believes that our house has a magical fairy that cleans the toilets and washes the dishes since he never offers to do either.

So, while I know that not every gay man would have an immaculate sense of cleanliness, my ideal gay husband would at least rush around to put dirty dishes in the oven when guests were coming over.

Reason seven: Tape

It's not just tape, but the useless accumulation of things that might be used for a "home improvement project" one day that is my latest reason. Here, you see a drawer full of tape. Unfortunately, this is not the only stash of tape that we have. I have used tape from this drawer about three times - electrical tape on a cord and masking twice. HH, however, uses tape for everything...way too much on boxes, gift wrapping, and decorating.

Notice that tape is not the only occupant of this drawer. Baseball cards. Hooks. Twine. Fishing Lure. Only a hetero man would have this odd combination of things in a drawer...a drawer that could be much better used for other things - extra linens or, call me crazy, clothes.

Other items that he stockpiles ridiculous amounts of are hiding in other places, as well. Boxes and boxes of light bulbs fill a closet, but my insistence for new non-early 80s light fixtures are ignored. We have enough screws to last a lifetime, but every trip to a hardware store requires the purchase of more. An entire toolbox of screwdrivers doesn't cause so much as a blink.

While all of these items drive me crazy, this one use of tape desperately wants me to have a different type of husband. Quite a while ago, HH "fixed" the back storm door when the screen was ripping. HH doesn't see the problem with it. HH will leave this like this until I fix it myself, like many of the "improvements" that he makes. HH didn't even have the sense to use one of the 17 rolls of clear tapes that he has in the drawer. So I leave you with

this, my ghetto back door fixed with tape, a memorial of sorts to my

dream of having a gay husband.