Pigeon Spit

On understanding the fairer race. ( and using pigeon spit as part of a task)

There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally right,
 it sings like a choir and pulses with the passion of an orchestra at crescendo.  A harmonious choral symphony.
There are times when the play between men and women works so fundamentally wrong, a dichotomy grating grates like shit-encrusted swine forcing their intent on nectar-scented hummingbirds.

I was reminded of the disparate nature of long term relationships by a neighbour who dropped in for a coffee and a quick chat.
Okay, to be honest I invited him in and he was too polite to refuse.
This afternoon we fell to talking about his plans for a recent home extension the council had refused….
He went on to discuss the alternative which was to add a window in the existing room, get his wife to move her collection of blue and white, place a small table and make the otherwise dead space usable. He thought however that  moving the blue and white was going to be harder than getting council permissions.
A knowing chuckle.
I proposed he remove an internal wall but immediately retracted that as I recalled his wife wanted the separate room provided by that very wall.
“How did you know that? he asked,
“She told me last time we were there. Hadn’t you two talked about that?”
“Well of course we have, but she never said, no.” he mused, “You know, they don’t do they. They allude to agreeing, but in a tone that is not quite totally agreeing.  We have to decipher if that means, ‘Perhaps’, or, ‘While I think it’s a reasonable idea I am not wholly convinced about it, so, sure, go ahead and try, its nothing to do with me.' ”
We laughed conspiratorially.

I reflected that I truly understood his dilemma. Many times a week I have to decide if a yes is a ‘Yes’, or if its a... ‘yes – If that’s what you want, dear’, or a... ‘yes – But realise it is your decision and I’ll tell you immediately if its not perfect’, or simply if its a... ‘yes as in NO!’

I, despite years of practice, remain completely without the skill set to determine a yes correctly or if my entreaties or approaches, my cajoling and humour are ever going to be appropriate to her mood from one minute to the next.

I am sure it is a genetic code that makes the female completely unaware that she is constantly sending out totally inconsistent messages. Not just on different days but within sentences, within glances and between breaths.
I do understand that it is the male’s role to allow for mood changes and decipher implied levels of agreement. I understand how, after so many years trying to do that it could logically expected, once in a while at least, I should get it right.
I also understand that when I wrongly interpret a yes, one that she has delivered in a moment of emotive transience, it is entirely my fault.

What I don’t understand is how this delicate, luscious flower-like, creature can instantly become so devastatingly fatal and powerfully demeaning in vitriol, glares and actions.
I mean, really.
Just as well I have a thick skin, coarse hair and smell a bit.
And it is also well that I do not suffer alone, that there is a local pub or place nearby where I can sit and talk with other coarse, smelly, bemused and bewildered lesser life forms. I think there is as much chance of bottling pigeon spit as there is of finding a bloke who has solved the yes conundrum.
Spending time with other smelly Shreks gives a level of balance, a vague surety to life and brings a renewed strength to the tragic male desire. The desire to return to smell the sweet essences of our partners and to try again to elicit the sparkling giggles, the sumptuous embraces and the caring words that make the whole confusion bearable. Dare I say, delightful.

But I doubt if I’ll ever know if she agrees.