By Serena Dorman of Mommy Cusses
I remember the first time I noticed my husband was a little unique. I was minding my own business on the couch, pondering the phenomenon of how your vagina blows little bubbles sometimes when I heard a perplexed voice ask from inside of the fridge: “Are we out of ranch?”
“No,” I said, my thoughts transitioning now to my supremely itchy butthole. The hair must be growing back from my last ass shaving sesh. Hope my husband doesn’t mind me using his razor, they’re just so much better than the ones marketed to ladies, ya know?
“I can’t find it!” my husband said, searching the ceiling.
“It’s literally right there,” I pointed to the bottle of slap-your-tits-off-delicious Original Hidden Valley that was partially behind the mustard. And that’s when I saw it – the holographic wall of codes and equations flash in front of his eyes as he tried to process the information I’d just given him.
It happened three more times that week. Once while I was super concentrated on my make-believe tail flipping while in the bathtub. That’s when I decided to consult our doctor.
So, after typing it into Google or whatever, I came to the expert conclusion that either A) My husband was dying, B) Gangrene of the retinas, or C) He was totally fine and I should check with an eye doctor just in case.
After experiencing anxiety-induced dialing paralysis and putting this off for a week so that I could properly play out every possible conversational scenario in my head, I bit the bullet and made an appointment with a specialist.
Doug, over there in the Vision Center at the Walmarts, gave my husband an exam and told us he couldn’t find anything wrong. My gut disagreed. “What’s that, Doug?” I pointed to a pile of empty candy wrappers on his desk.
“What’s what?” Doug laughed.
“Doug. Where do you put a brand new roll of toilet paper after the old one has run out?”
“I just plop her right on top of the old one!”
I realized right then that this seemed to be a condition that only affected males, and that this needed to be brought into the mainstream. My husband can’t find anything. Surely, I couldn’t be alone.
Symptoms of Male Pattern Blindness include, but are not limited to:
- The inability to see objects if they are partially obstructed and, in major cases, even if they are in plain sight
- A tendency to look for things orally which entails asking a female cohabitant where something is located instead of doing a more thorough search
- A search life-span of 1 minute maximum
- An allergic reaction while looking for something that causes irritability, throwing or forcefully shoving things aside, and expletives
- Eyes with a glazed-over look
- Relying on others to be their human GPS
- Extreme aversions to giving a single fuck and tendency to outsource givings of fucks to you
Treatment for Male Pattern Blindness
There is unfortunately no known cure or treatment for MPB, but these exercises may help you to better cope with it.
- Silently mouthing “WTF” to the invisible camera in your life
- Doing the thing with your fingers where you pretend to smush their head from afar
- Mouthing “I’ll kill you” when they’re not looking
- Giving them the middle finger from inside of your hoodie or sweatpants pockets
- Screaming into a pillow
If your life has been negatively impacted by your significant other being visually fucking clueless, you’re not alone! Just read these confessions from other sufferers:
“It’s so frustrating having a husband who doesn’t use his goddamned eyeballs!”
(comment below, or comment on the social media post you found this on to have your testimonial added!)
How to cope with this absolute bullshittery
- Look at funny memes
- Make swearcastic labels to help point out the (should-be) obvious
- Resist the urge to help them find things. Encouraging visual independence may help strengthen their FIYFS (find it your fucking self) muscles
Scientists have discovered that there’s an area in the male eye that is missing when compared to the eye of a female, and it’s believed that it is where the fucking audacity is housed.
Solidarity, mama, you are not alone!
About the Author
Serena Dorman is a freelance writer, content creator, and the potty-mouthed author of the blog Mommy Cusses. She is a regular contributor at Sammiches & Psych Meds, has had her writing featured on many major parenting websites, and has a humor essay published in the anthology But Did You Die? You can follow her hot-mess mom malarkey on Twitter and Facebook.