Men and the art of storytelling

I love my husband. I really do.
However, the poor, long-suffering man simply does not appreciate a good story.

Let me set this up for you. I have inherited my mother's genes in many ways. Now, my mother is a storyteller and doesn't know it. To her, a conversation is an excuse to spin a fabulous tale, detailing events and tiny issues most people wouldn't even notice. She, well, she meanders a lot in conversation, and I suppose I've started to do it a little too. Like mother, like daughter.

I once asked her if my brother had returned yet from a trip to Thailand. Simple "yes" or "no" response, right? Oh no, not for my mom! This was her answer:

"Well. I went to his condo yesterday because he was expecting some work men. He's getting renovations done on his bathroom, remember? I love the color he chose for the trim. I guess it's sort of beige, but more like a pebble grey color. So I walked over to pick up my jacket. I left it there the last time I visited. And I got a chance to talk to Joe. He's the man doing the bathroom. Joe has 5 children. Can you believe it? And he looks half my age. He's handsome. He should really be on the cover of one of your books. By the way, my friend Joyce read one of your books and is wondering how I ended up with such a smutty daughter....."

Are you getting the picture? It took me ten minutes to find out if my bro was even home yet.

Anyway, this particular trait drives my hubby bonkers. When Mom starts talking, his eyes glaze over and I see he's gone to his happy place. As for me, I just nod and smile. I personally love my mom's stories, and believe they are one of the reasons I tell stories now. I appreciate the yarn, the beauty in the details.

Hubby would just like the answer. Name. Rank. Serial number. Done. Let's eat.

I think this might be a man thing, but I don't want to generalize. Goodness knows, lots of men tell stories. I see it as my job to coach hubby on being patient with storytellers, just as he "encourages" me to get to the point. However, he must be the strong one because he's surrounded by storytellers. My youngest son has now discovered a flair for spinning yarns. We just have to ask how his day went and he launches into a diatribe about schoolmates and tests and teachers, one that never seems to have an end in sight.

And when he does, I look across the table at hubby's glazed expression, and smile.