Gimme Three Steps

Nan’s new toy came via UPS Tuesday evening. Well, it’s really for both of us.

I’ve been pleased with the reception thusfar. And it’s nice to have a case for Nan, a carseat if you will. So that she’s not sliding around and everything. I am a little concerned with having to continually plug and unplug things from her inputs thought. I hope they don’t get worn out. But so far, so good.

I was, however, none too thrilled with the nine step instruction sheet that came with it. As men, if the instructions for something have more than three steps, we pretty much ignore them and (try to) figure it out for ourselves. Sure there may be parts left over after all is said and done. But in the end, the product usually works. At least for awhile. I’m sure some of you ladies may have noticed this by now.

Think about things men do. They’re all fairly simple. Watching TV? Find remote, change channel, adjust volume. Using the bathroom? Pull down pants, go, flush. See, putting the seat down would make it one step too many.

That’s why in weddings, men all wear the same thing and don’t walk down the aisle. In order for us to show up and agree to go thru with it, things had to be simplified to a few basic steps. Wear a tux, stand at the front, say I do.

Men like things simple. We are, after all, cavemen and hunters from way back in the day. Cro-Magnon! Represent!

I’ll close today with this little anecdote. A slice of life if you will. I had dinner at Applebee’s Monday night. The server came around and asked what we wanted to drink. I ordered lemonade. She informed me they were out of lemonade. As I was trying to decide on an alternate beverage, she kept mentioning their root beer, telling me how delicious it was and suggesting I order it. So I did.

Five minutes later, she returned and informed me that they were now also out of root beer. I decided just to have a Coke. (That’s capital C, for Coca-Cola, not small c for soft drink, for you northerners who may be reading.)

When she returned to take our order, I ordered a house salad with ranch dressing. That is when she uttered a phrase I had never heard before, and hope to never hear again:

“I’m sorry. We’re out of ranch dressing.”

What!

Are you joking me?! What in the name of Hidden Valley is going on around here? This is America. Land of the free and home of the ranch. I thought they just piped in the ranch dressing these days. You know, hot, cold, ranch.

Well, by this time I was at the point of saying just bring me whatever you do have. I wound up with a salad, with blue cheese dressing, and like half a dang quesadilla.

After that, I overheard one of the guys behind us trying to order one of the appetizer/entree/dessert three course combos. She informed him that they were out of the two kinds of desserts that normally come with the combos.

I guess this is what one might call “eating moderately well in the neighborhood…”

“Won’t you gimme three steps, gimme three steps, mister? Gimme three steps toward the door…”