Sometimes, I’ll admit, it’s fun irritating people.  On occasion, I’ll do it on purpose, purely for my own perverse entertainment.

The supercilious waiter at the snooty restaurant obviously enjoyed his 8 minute pharyngeal monologue on the glories of the lunch specials.  I enjoyed it less than he did.  So I proceeded to quiz him on where the “fresh” basil was farmed.  On whether the arugula, kale and Swiss chard were organically-grown.  And whether the scallops were harvested sustainably (damned if I know if that’s even possible).

After he’d completed several round trips to the kitchen to consult with the chef, I ordered a steak, as usual.

The simmering rage and barely-suppressed hate in the waiter’s eyes was all the reward I needed.  My appetite for cruelty was sated.  (I tipped well to ease his ire and my conscience.)

More often, however, it’s not my intention to annoy.  Truly.  But I do realize that, in spite of my many sterling qualities, there’s much about me to hate.  Here are just a few items that have been brought to my attention.

I’m neat, but not clean:  When a woman first enters the wolf’s lair, she is invariably impressed by my innate tidiness.  Everything is in its place.  Nothing is on a tabletop or surface, if it shouldn’t be.  Towels are folded on the racks, my sports shoes are in the closet, and my boxers and briefs are not on the floor.  Then they achieve a closer inspection.

There is often a fine layer of dust coating things, as in a hotel room unused for some months.  I don’t wipe the counters unless I’ve just spilled something.  The clothes hamper is conveniently huge, so I don’t have to do laundry until I have dirtied precisely my last clean T-shirt (and I have a remarkably large collection).  No, my dear, you don’t have a new pimple.  I just haven’t Windex-ed the mirror in quite some time.

I have the cleaning lady in irregularly, especially if I’m doing a fair bit of travel.  She’s another woman I irritate mightily.

I whistle:  I didn’t realize how painful this could be to those who don’t enjoy listening to other people whistle.  I’m generally not even aware I’m doing it.  And to be fair, the tunes I tend to whistle (quite tunefully, I think) may not help matters.  Hard rock doesn’t necessarily translate well to my preferred instrument – my lips (yes, girlish lips, as I’ve been informed).

I don’t “listen-listen”:  Now, I pride myself on having a reasonably good understanding of the fairer sex.  And I continue to do rigorous research.  Sometimes via ingenious hands-on experimentation.  Other times, by listening.  I find it’s amazing what you can hear, just by listening.

But I’ve been operating under the assumption that conversations with women are pretty much like conversations with other kinds of people.  You pay attention, exchange information, ask relevant questions and respond as best you can. 

Incorrect.  That’s just “listening”.  It’s not “listening-listening”.  I’m missing the subtext, you see.  And that was the whole point of the conversation.  When a girlfriend says she’s going to drive upstate to see her mother this weekend… she’s not just saying that.  She has delivered my cue to probe.

Perhaps her mother is ill.  Maybe she’s mad at me (for one of a number of reasons), and her maternal visit is a statement of distance from me.  Or it’s possible she’s hinting that it’s time I began to meet her family.  My God, man!  What’s wrong with you?  Can’t you see you’re supposed to dig for the truth?

I wake up cheerful:  I’m trying to learn, really.  I don’t mean to ruin a woman’s day by starting it off wrong.  But I can’t help myself.  I love mornings.  Love them.  I always sleep well, whether on 8 hours or only 4.  I have happy dreams every night.  And rain or shine, I’m always pleased to embrace a new dawn.

I like to get up early, make coffee, grab the Times, turn on music and start frying things such as eggs, pork products, tomatoes and kippers.

Now, I’m coming to understand that there is a surprising number of women whose relationship with mornings is akin to the relationship between Glenn Beck and normal humans.  Morning is a nemesis, particularly after late-night revelry and consumption of potent potables.

This would explain my guests’ visceral reaction to wandering (in delightfully disheveled dishabille) into a near-physical wall of pungent aromas, pulse-pounding guitar, the questionable gift of my chatty cheer, and my enthusiastic suggestion that a run or a swim would be just the thing.

I have been told more than once that it would be much appreciated if I would simply leave my apartment and return around noon.  With cupcakes, would be nice.

Naturally, the aforementioned represents only the tip of a quite massive iceberg.  I’m trying to compile a comprehensive list of the things women hate about me, and take a systematic approach to addressing them.  For now, however, I will continue to make titanic efforts to make the next relationship unsinkable.

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