I won't bother to explain what guy logic is. Women already know what Guy Logic is. (it's often accompanied by Male Pattern Blindness, but that's a different post.) There is a feminine version of Guy Logic, called women's logic, but I won't venture into that dark territory. As a guy, I'm unqualified to speak about women's logic without fear of retribution. I won't do it, and you can't make me.
Guy logic gets me in trouble, and it ought to. You might be aware I have Korsakoff's Disease, and some problems with short term memory. I carry a digital recorder to help me remember things. I don't use it as often as I used to, but it is an important device to me. It's a prosthetic memory device.
It's not immune to Guy Logic. I just had the following conversation with my wife:
Me: I found AAA batteries at the Dollar General. A four-pack was only a $1.27.
Her: Why did we need batteries?
Me: (Answering too quickly, and oblivious to the quicksand under my feet): I used the ones from my digital recorder in the new remote control I bought yesterday.
Her: (arching an eyebrow--a warning shot) You took the batteries out of your memory...to use for television.
Me: (internally hearing Danger! Will Robinson, Danger! WARNINGWARNINGWARNING!) I did. But I replaced the batteries today.
Her: (Speaking very slowly in order to pierce the cloud of stupidity hovering around my head) You. Used. Batteries. From. Your. Memory. For. Television. Convenience.
Me: I...uh... (I whipped out my "little boy" grin, the one I use for emergencies such as this)...I made you an apple pie tonight!
I think I pushed it when I tried to give her a smooch after that. Not sure, though. I'm a guy.
Getting in trouble for Guy Logic isn't a unique Dave Steele thing. Guy Logic makes good sitcom fodder. Hell, if it weren't for Guy Logic, we wouldn't have most sitcoms. I should try to avoid being a sitcom. I won't, but I should.
Every once in a while, like most guys, I suffer from a bad idea. I once offered to make her a cup of hot chocolate. She waited in bed for me to bring her a nice, foamy cup of cocoa with marshmallows. I was about to stir it with a whisk when my eye fell on the milkshake maker.
We have 10' ceilings in our kitchen. Keep that in mind as I continue this little story...
I looked at the milkshake mixer and the powder floating on top of the mug of hot water in my hands. Looked at the mug, looked at the milkshake maker. I know what to do! I'll use that thing to stir the shivin' lit out of this cocoa and give her the best, fluffiest cup of hot chocolate in the history of hot chocolate.
In manly fashion, cocksure and hopeful, I dumped the contents of the mug into the stainless steel cup. I turned the milkshake maker on high (don't know why they bother making a milkshake machine with two speeds anyway), and stuck the steel cup up under the super-fast whirligig.
I did well.
I didn't scream when the scalding liquid shot up--straight up--in a blur of foamy glory. I'm glad I wear glasses, which protected my eyes from that flying chocolate concoction. Marshmallows stuck in my hair. The ceiling was still dripping when I took her the four inches of foam over one inch of cocoa and the single, stubborn marshmallow in the cup.
I bowed my head when I served it to her. She'd already seen the fifteen marshmallows in my hair and the speckles on my glasses. "It's darn fluffy," I said. "Fluffiest you've ever had. I'll...uh...paint the ceiling this weekend."
Then there was the time I decided to surprise her by setting up the Christmas tree while she was at school. We have a rule I think I might have explained before. It's this:
Left-handed Dave is NOT allowed to use his wife's power tools
I dragged the Christmas tree into the dining room. I needed to cut a few inches off the trunk and searched in vain for the bow saw. I was sure we have a bow saw, but I couldn't find it in the two minutes I looked for it.
Guy Logic to the rescue!
I couldn't find the bow saw, but I did find her small circular saw. I put on safety glasses. I brought the circular saw up from her workshop in the basement. I got the cordless phone and dialed 911 as a pre-emptive strike and figured I could hit "talk" with my nose if I had a mishap with the saw.
I was successful! The circular saw didn't want to cut all the way through the trunk (I refer you to the 10' ceilings previously mentioned. I didn't buy a puny tree.) I turned the tree with one hand, sloppily, while holding the saw with the other. God had my back. No injuries to myself. Didn't cut the trunk in a straight line, but that's what walls are for: to lean the tree against when you can't balance it in the damn stand.
The sawdust in the dining room was prodigious. I vacuumed the room. I decorated the tree. I put the decorations away.
I got busted for using the saw. For one, Guy Logic never told me to put the saw away! For another...apparently it doesn't take a genius--it takes a woman--to figure out that sawdust on the ceiling fan shouldn't happen.