So how ya doin’? Don’t ask.

My fellow blogger “Hubby Diaries” wrote a post this week totally abusing her husband for having a “man cold” or “man flu.”

I know that stories are legendary among our female companions of men turning into total babies at the first hint of a sniffle or cough. I hope I’m not one of those. I typically come down with one cold a year, which usually degenerates into bronchitis. I try to ignore it for several weeks in the expectation my immune system will do what it is supposed to do and just make it go away. (What’s the point of all those little antibodies if they’re not doing their job?) Eventually, I end up at the doctor’s office to get a prescription for an antibiotic.  When I do run a fever and feel lousy, I just snuggle down on the couch and apologize to Mrs. Poolman for being such poor company.

However, for those members of the gentle sex who like to make fun of their ailing partners, I have a question. Which is worse – the occasional “man flu baby” or the chronic “I’m always feeling bad” whiner?

None of my male-friends ever complains about the way they feel.

“Hey, man, what happened to you?”

“Well, I coughed up a lung and left it in the passenger seat of my car, but I still have one left so I’m cool. So, what d’ya think about the game last night?”

On the other hand, I know any number of women for whom complaining about aches, pains and discomforts is a way of life.

“Hey, Mary, how are you?”

“Oh, I haven’t slept well in a week. My back aches. My neck hurts. I may be coming down with a migraine. And I think my uterus fell out last night. You know my doctor says I have a very sensitive disposition.”

I have several friends with whom I am very careful to never ask how they are. It’s not that I don’t care. Well, maybe it is. It’s just that, unless someone really is seriously ill or injured, the expression, “How are you?” is just a casual greeting, not a request for a health inventory.

Whatever you do, you must never react or respond to the complaints. To do so would only encourage them and subject you to a lengthy health history and prognosis.

“I really think these are all symptoms of dengue fever. I may have only days to live.”

“So, do you guys want to catch a movie tonight, or what?”

Here’s to hoping your 2012 is a healthy one! To quote another blog-friend, Terri, “Life is good!”

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Low standards

Mrs. Poolman and I had a conversation yesterday that gave me something to think about.

It started when she called me at work in the late afternoon. She said that the staff in her intensive care unit was planning a group lunch today. Her assignment was to bring a couple pounds of meat for tacos. She asked if I would pick up some ground beef on the way home.

An aside here – Mrs. Poolman is an RN who works 12 hour shifts in an intensive care unit. When she works one of her three shifts a week, she is out of the house at 6:20 am and doesn’t return until after 7:30 pm. When she works back-to-back shifts, like yesterday and today, she isn’t interested in running errands on the way home. Understandable.

So, of course, I said I would do so and offered to cook the meat also. No big deal. I get home between 5:30 and 6 pm and have time in the evening to take care of that.  Besides, what’s the big deal about browning some ground beef?

I stopped at Publix and picked up two pounds of ground chuck and taco spice packets. I cooked it up when I got home and left it for Mrs. Poolman to pack as she wanted for the next day.

When Mrs. Poolman arrived home close to 8 pm, she told me the other nurses were astounded when she mentioned that no only would I stop at the grocery store, but I would also cook the meat for her. One nurse asked if she could have first dibs on me if Mrs. Poolman should happen to die anytime soon. Huh?

All this made me wonder about these nurses’ husbands. Do they not do things like that for their wives? Apparently not.

Have the standards for “good husband” sunk so low that cooking a pan of ground chuck constitutes grounds for canonization? That’s kind of sad. On the other hand, it makes me look good by comparison. It doesn’t hurt to have Mrs. Poolman’s co-workers telling her what a sterling example of a husband I am.

Rock on, brothers!