Gallagher, that ’80s icon said it best, ‘the difference between a man and a woman is that a man can walk through a shoe store, especially when he has shoes on his feet.’ You have my permission to use it at those wonderful Christmas parties; I don’t know if you still need Gallagher’s permission. But the truth of the matter is that women love to shop, women love to spend money, women love to buy things. I’m not sure they like things more than men; in fact, I’m pretty sure men like their possessions more than women, in part because the act of obtaining them isn’t a religious experience for them, but possessions owned by men tend to be more revered. Men also tend to have fewer of them.

Men’s houses are less cluttered, less cluttered, less homey. Men’s homes tend to be austere compared to women’s, tend to have better electronics and perhaps an amazing chair or sofa. Some exercise equipment and a coffee table. What they lack is things like paintings, candles, cushions that complement the curtains, kitchen tables that were not rescued from a garage. Towels that complement anything in the house and a bed that’s meant to be a showpiece instead of just two things, swoon and you know what else. To that end, men, you must keep it clean and your room decent enough. Keep your dirty briefs and contaminated socks in a laundry basket, don’t leave them in a trail to your fainting zone.

So it occurred to me one hungover morning that a painting above my fireplace would be nice. The living room was, let’s face it, bland. Not only was I overpowered by that ridiculously large TV I had to have for a Super Bowl party four years ago, now screaming outdated like a white Chevrolet Suburban, but my girlfriend was right, I needed some color in here. I liked the Aztec clay that they painted on my walls; the problem is that everything else was some shade of brown or another. Even the curtains my darling ordered from The Pottery Barn. In her defense, my walls at the time were going to be painted blue, so everything she brought in was a shade of brown, and the rug I picked out and the couch my mom bought were all brown. It goes unnoticed. most of the time, and my girlfriend stopped commenting on it after the first seven months or so.

But on this sad, lonely, quiet morning, where even the soulful sounds of Lucinda Williams couldn’t comfort the blues I was working on, I decided I needed art. Which meant a day, or a weekend, or a month of weekends, walking through galleries and being greeted by pretentious shopkeepers or prowlers, looking at one painting after another, until they were confused as past loves.

I would have to take my girlfriend of course, I didn’t always agree with her tastes, but she knows my tastes even better than I do. And walking into a store without her by my side would be like letting people know that I have times when I’m insecure. Neither of which will ever happen. Shopping with my special someone is fun, to the point. When it comes to shopping I just don’t have that much energy, those store lights just tire my eyes, head and feet. My favorite stores have comfy chairs in a corner, where I can sit out of the way until my sweetie is ready to move on. She never buys anything from me, and she feels like when I take her to a ball game. The gesture is nice, but the energy to enjoy it just isn’t there. Certain activities were created to be enjoyed with your gender. Men have sports and sports, both watching and playing. I would have added drinking, but there are times when drinking with a woman has its definite rewards. Women go shopping, have lunch, go to beauty salons, walk briskly and go to the toilet.

When my girlfriend goes shopping with her friends, things are bought, deals are made, and memories are made. Celebratory desserts and wine consumed, and she comes home content with life. She has had the victory. It’s like she took three strokes off her golf score.

So the prospect of having art in my fireplace didn’t seem bright. Whether it’s giving up weekend after weekend browsing art, until succumbing to that despair that would lead me to buy the next non-ridiculous thing I saw. Or just sit here in all my decor UPSness.

And then I realized, I can give you my credit card, with the address to buy something for my fireplace. You can rally your troops, purchases are available, cars are filled, plans of attack are made, and you have a credit card. They can have desserts, she can sneak a pair of shoes in there, and I get a nice piece of art to complement my living room, my tastes. And the next morning when I’m hungover, I can admire my wall above my fireplace and then worry about the cushions.