D.A.H.O.F. Spreadsheet Sex Guy

I suppose by now everyone on the internet has heard about the Spreadsheet Guy, which is the downside of having a weekly feature on a blog–some stuff just isn’t going to be timely.  Be that as it may, for those of you still unenlightened, Spreadsheet Guy is the hurt and resentful husband who kept a spreadsheet recording all of the sexual overtures he made to his wife over a couple months, detailing acceptance, rejection, and–in the case of rejections, his wife’s reasoning. He then proceeded to email it to her on her way out of town on a business trip, then refuse to answer her replies. His wife, not to be outdone in the immaturity department, took the matter–and the spreadsheet–to Reddit.com.  It’s really worth looking at this close up.

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I cannot be too happy about this.  First, it makes my week two DAHoF inductee a no brainer, but it also proves I’m not the most hopelessly obtuse and inconsiderate husband in the world and gives me a belly laugh in the process.

In no way should that be interpreted as approval for the wife’s actions, though I can sympathize. That’s a lot of pestering and whining to put up with.  My question is how did this guy ever decide on “anger and humiliation” as a marital therapy tool?  Of course, I’m even more surprised by the battalion of equally frustrated men who have leapt to this guy’s defense, all but crying out “how dare this woman keep her vagina to herself?!”

Sheesh. Have they all forgotten when we were teenagers and sex was a magical land, carefully and scrupulously guarded, the key to which inspired us to unending quests, humiliating gestures, and most of our pride and limited wealth?  Man, we’d do ANYTHING–at least, I would have–to visit that wondrous land, and yet somehow these guys have gotten to a place where they best they can do is make half-assed passes while their wives are watching old episodes of Friends?  Again: sheesh.  As Bill Cosby used to say: these guys are like a baseball team during a thunderstorm: NO GAME.

I’m not talking about that mysogenist singles-bar pickup bullshit, but regular old relationship maintenance. For the love of god, man: wash the frakking dishes, pal. Run the vaccuum.  Do a load of laundry. Fully half the foreplay I’ve been part of,  over the past 33 years that I’ve been sexually active (is that TMI?) began with a domestic chore–and I’m good at announcing the “man stuff” I do that might otherwise go unnoticed. “I just changed the furnace filter” or “I added a quart of oil to your car and checked the tires–they looked low.”  It amazes me how many men are too dull-witted, or too stubborn, to actually do the things that make their women happy.  Even an old (beloved, admittedly) bumpkin like Waylon Jennings can offer up some valid insight.

So, here’s the thing.  My wife is kind of hot, and I’m regularly asked if I plan to start dressing up as Santa for the poor kids one of these Christmas seasons–I totally have that whole “bowl full of jelly” thing going on, and the last time I was at the Hair Salon the girl who cuts my hair–and knows me away from work as well–asked me if I got the senior discount.  The Senior Discount.  I’m 48.  Mrs. Junk is certainly not into me for looks–although we can’t discount a bit of Stockholm syndrome after more than two decades together, and it’s not my sense of style: some of my clothes are older than my teenage children, but still.  Or my money: I majored in Literature in College, which is actually a negative mark on most job applications, like answering “yes” to the “have you ever been prosecuted” question.

Does my wife loathe the sight of me sometimes?  Yes; quite often, I suppose.  Does she ignore me when I’m muttering about tire pressure and furnace filters?  Almost certainly.  Does she ignore me to the point that I call her out, specifically to hurt her, with attached documentation.  No, because I’m not a dickhead.

Guilt doesn’t make someone want you, and incessant begging and whining and moaning doesn’t make a woman growl like a panther and whisper “Got to have me some of that.”  Folding the napkins does, though.  A lot of guys on that Reddit page would probably tell me it’s reverse sexist to expect the man to dance for his dinner, so to speak, and to them I would boldly demand: “So, what’s your point?”  Women are soft and warm and they smell nice–that’s worth working for.  And, while you’re at it: make a point to tell your woman you love her twice a day, and let her know you think she’s hot just as often–and do it with more than a slap on the ass and a rude suggestion (though, occasionally, if you’re careful, a little lechery can go a long way).

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About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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2 Responses to D.A.H.O.F. Spreadsheet Sex Guy

  1. M T McGuire says:

    Wise words… Funny too.

    Like

  2. Pingback: Football Thoughts 9/22 | Old Road Apples

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