Women's Work is Never Done

Okay, so I’m your classic male chauvinist pig. Remember I’m a classic. And how do you get to be a classic, by having all the others disappear. How does that happen? It all started with women’s right to vote. Then they deiced to declare war on men and actually run for office and hold down outside jobs! Damn, they won the battle, but not the war.

It all started when I was 22. A very young age. Well, not so young, but young when you’ve never done women’s work. This was when my mother decided that the men in the house should do their own laundry. We protested with, “But we’re men. We fight the battles, we protect the women” which didn’t work, because mom responded, “Well, now it’s time to fight the battle of the dingy whites.”

How could I learn to do something that was clearly not meant for men? How could I learn to separate the white and colors and delicates and use laundry soap with names like Tide, Germs Be Gone, and Women Wash, Men Hunt? This was clearly women’s work. “Mom, I’m not up to the task. Can you do my laundry for just 22 more years, then I swear I will learn?” “No. If you want clean jeans tomorrow for your big date, you’ll have to do them yourself.” But Mom, I never wanted to be in touch with my feminine or maternal side, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. Instead, I threw all my laundry, whites, pinks, purples, blacks and blues (bruised blue jeans) into the laundry, poured in a heaping amount of detergent and waited. I didn’t have to wait long—the suds came pouring out of the machine as if the clothes had declared war on them. “Mom, help. Help!” And Mom came this time. “What did you do, use the whole box?” “No. I just put the amount of soap equal to the poundage into the machine,” I said. “Didn’t you read the directions on the box? It only takes a cup.” “No.” Come on Mom, I wanted to say, you know men never read directions. It was a manly mistake. I wanted to say these things, but instead I thought them loudly.

Still, after the cleanup (which Mom forced me to do, so I could be even more in touch with my feminine side), Mom refused to do my laundry. I wanted to say, “If a crazy man runs in here brandishing a pistol, I won’t have time to protect you, because I’ll be doing laundry.” But I didn’t say it.

Finally, the wash cycle finished my clothes. I noticed my tighty-whities looked like something the teletubbies would wear: That was when I knew I had to integrate my manly side with my unmanly feminine side, if I ever wanted to survive the locker room at my local health club. So, I learned how to lift and separate (my clothes too). Nothing has come out pink or purple (unless it was pink or purple to begin with) since that time.

However, I’m still manly. Women’s work is women’s work. Men’s work is men’s work. I will protect the women and hunt and kill the animals, women can cook and clean. Unless of course, I want my meat cooked medium with just a touch of Worcestershire sauce and my shirts to have that pristine “just dry-cleaned” stiffness that comes only from spray starch. I don’t do dishes (my dishwasher does). And I don’t do makeup—unless of course I get a pimple, then I use the skin-toned pimple cream to clear it up—but NOT to hide the pimple. And I don’t make my bed—unless company is coming over, or I want that linen-fresh scent straight from the dryer sheets. And I don’t tell people how I’m feeling, unless I’m depressed, lonely, happy or needy. See, I’m still a male chauvinist pig. Just a more elightened one.