Women and children first. It’s a principle that has governed the lives of men for ages, and hopefully will for ages to come. Men are expendable; women and children are not.
I was at a funeral a few years back, where a good friend of mine was laying to rest his wife’s mother. While his wife was free to give vent to her feelings and cry up a storm, my friend had to be “the man” and stoically support her.
This goes for burying a family pet, too, while the kids weep. No crying at an emotional movie. NO CRYING IN PUBLIC!! Sucks, man…
OTOH, I will never cry in public, either. I do all my crying in private. (Ladies: it’s not that we DON’T cry; we just choose our moments)
The basement well pump kicks on to repressurize the tank, and Bad Noises intrude into our domestic tranquility. I go to “check.” She follows.
As soon as we get down there, the pump motor EXPLODES in a truly impressive electro-pyrotechnic display.
Her: “What happened?”
Me: Isn’t it obvious? “I think the pump blew up.”
Her: “Can you fix it?”
Me: Not in a million years.“I don’t think so. I’d better call our plumber and have it replaced.”
Her: "But you’re an ENGINEER!!! Why am I with an ENGINEER if you can’t fix broken things!?!?!
Me: “Okay. I’ll go buy a new pump, because there’s no way I’m getting a new motor for this 35+ year old assembly, and the pump itself is probably hosed too. And then I’ll cart this two-ton monstrosity out of the basement and bring the new one in, remembering beforehand, of course, to have about a hundred gallons of water on hand to prime the well with, and if I screw it up, then I have to take about a week off of work and call a plumber anyway, and do YOU WANT THAT!?! DO YOU?!?”
Then she coldcocks me and goes to bed. I have a nice, restfull coma on the basement floor.
Hired killer. I prefer the term “hired killer.” Of course, I’ve been trained, but the fact is, I don’t just kill wantonly, indiscriminately, or for fun. I expect remuneration. Please have some respect for my professional pride. Anyone can be a killer, trained or otherwise. It takes a special kinda guy to get paid for it.
Which brings up how many “guys are supposed to take care of vermin” posts thus far. Sorta makes me laugh at how squeamish a lot of folks are. When you do it for a living, you really get desensitized to the whole thing. Dead rat carcass? Hey, no prob.
It’s the times when I’m wrestling a prowler to the ground and beating him to death with a Louisville Slugger that I sigh and wonder, “WHERE’S that lovable, huggable, sexy chick who loves me above all others and shares my bed? I should be having SEX, not protecting the house from intruders, dammit!”
Comes with the territory. My favorite was when my sister, who was staying in my apartment at the time, called me on my mobile to report that a bird had flown in the living room window and that she had barricaded herself in my bedroom until such a time that I might be able to return home and somehow get rid of it. I had to leave the party I was at, come home, throw a blanket over the bird so I could catch it and release it outside without harming it. Because God forbid I harm a single feather - that would invite a hysterical conniption fit.
Go downstairs and check for prowlers, fix the car on the side of the highway with no tools, deal with the hoodlum who makes a raunchy comment to your girlfriend. It’s all part of the deal.
LOL!!! She’s burrowed under the covers, chewing on the dog’s ear (if you don’t have a dog, well… god knows what she’s got in her mouth).
I do have to say, though, that sometimes having Burly Bat Boy around can just make you all twirly, if he’s too trigger happy/paranoid.
I was on a first date once… We’d gone out to eat, and were back at my place, chatting amiably on my couch over cocktails, when my dog suddenly popped her head up and barked.
God knows what she heard, since she barks and runs to the door whenever she hears the doorbell on a Domino’s Pizza commercial–and my house has no doorbell–or when I’m banging my sneaker against the doorjamb to dislodge dried mud–in other words, she’s The Dog Who Cries Wolf.
So I pretty much ignored her.
My date, meanwhile, leapt off the couch and dashed outside, mumbling something about “check[ing] it out”.
After about five minutes, I started to wonder if he hadn’t paid the dog off to give him an excuse to run away (had I overdone it on the garlic bread at dinner?)!
Finally he came back in, shut the door chain-latched it, and sat back down to inform me somewhat breathlessly that he’d circled the outside of the house three times, but there wasn’t anyone there.
Which I probably could have told him myself, if he hadn’t jumped up so quickly. He explained that his own dog NEVER barks unless there IS an intruder lurking about, so when my dog barked, he was pretty much ready to Kung Fu Fight a muthaf*cka.
So I say sure, be “the man”… but don’t be a freak.
Woman of the house (that’s me) is bouncer of spiders from the residence. I am better with heights, so I am also climber of ladders. Except up into the attic, because there are things up there that would give me really bad asthma. I am in charge of firewall and security on our home computers. I am also the one who does decorating.
Man of the house is user of power tools. He is in charge of computer hardware. He gets up for noises in the night, but says that intruders would probably be more scared of me. He takes the trash out, but this is partly because he almost seems to like it. “Is it bin night tonight?” “No love, it’s not bin night till tomorrow”
Really hardcore practical stuff gets done by his dad.
Sometimes these things get complicated, say if a power tool needs to be used up a ladder. We both do putting together of flatpack furniture, sometimes to the point of fighting over who gets to do which bit.
Funky crash-tinkle noise from frontn of house wakes me from sound sleep, which is no minor feat. I roll out of bed, don glasses, pick up shotgun, then I proceed cautiously to front door.
Ah, just someone trashing their beer bottle in the turnaround part (I live off one of those circle-thingies, that U-s around back into the through street). I walk back in, put the loaded shotgun back in the stand, and go back to sleep.
I like having a man around, occasionally, but when he starts trying to sleep over, or take over, my life, it’s time to get a new one. I quite prefer taking care of myself, including rodent removal and dealing with horrible plumbing problems.
Of course, I’ve got an engineering degree, too, so I always call someone else to fix the nasty jobs. Why get my hands dirty and myself all aggravated? That is what money is for; avoiding inconveniences that life is too short to tolerate.
On some days, I feel the same way. Having had an over-protective and chauvinistic (though very loving) father, I can sometimes get foot-stompingly adamant about taking care of myself.
Other times, for the same exact reason, I become Insta-Princess, and wish I still had a big manly ass to hide behind and a pant leg to grip when I get scared.
It may seem like the guys get stuck with the disgusting jobs but I know two words that will more than offset any amount of imaginary-burglar-prowling and assumed-super-handyman tasks:
POOPY DIAPERS
I’d rather patrol an inner city neighborhood after midnight whilst simultaneously repairing a leaky water heater than tackle that chore.
Right you are, and while I could issue the complaint that I am fully expected to change diapers when I visit my sister, when her husband is NOT (and, um… which of us helped CREATE these Poo-spewing packages?)…
This thread has given me a more profound appreciation for the trade-offs.
I’ve gotten used to
Livin’ alone,
With nobody’s taste to consider but my own
I can watch any television program I choose,
I don’t have to settle for football or news
Livin’ alone…
Hey, and I’m used to sleepin’
All by myself,
Don’t fight for the covers with anybody else
Hey, and I can eat crackers in bed if I please,
I can have onions and Limburger Cheese
Livin’ alone…
I can go anywhere I want to
With no certain time to be home
I can spend every penny I make,
And I don’t have to beg like a dog for a bone.
I’ve gotten used to
Livin’ alone,
I don’t have to answer the door or the telephone,
The sink’s full of dishes, there’s clothes on the floor,
The cap’s off the toothpaste and I just adore
Livin’ alone.
Livin’ alone,
Livin’ alone…
“LIVIN’ ALONE,” by Marie Cain, ca 1974. Don’t know the publisher, or I would gladly give credit.
Just after MrsO and I moved into this building, we were asleep one night when we heard a key in the door lock. (Small apartment, so we heard it pretty clearly.) I, the hairy-chested defender of the place, assumed it was the security guard, because they do tend to wander in and out freely around here. Turns out it was true; he didn’t know that this apartment was occupied, and he was looking for a place to get a nap.
Problem is, I had got out of bed, thinking I could grab the doorknob and prevent it from opening, while I explained to the guy that we were living here. I was just a second too late. The door swung open when I was about one meter away. I had also forgotten about the motion-sensor light in the entry way, so suddenly I found myself bathed in light while the security guard stood staring. I was wearing several tattoos, but nothing else. I wasn’t carrying any wood (bats or otherwise), but what I had was in full view.
The guard stammered some apology and backed away, but every time I saw him after that, he seemed to be snickering just a little. Hey, it was cold in the apartment.
Exactly!! Thank all that’s holy, I’ve found a kindred spirit.
What do people want, anyway. We spend the entire day fixing other peoples’ problems, and then we’re supposed to fix the stuff at home. Take off, eh*.
[/hijack]
Anyway, what UncleBeer said. We guys like to pick the gravel out of our knuckles once in a while, and try to convince our wimmins that we’re worth keeping around.
*[sub]I would have been Canadian, but I failed the entrance exam[/sub]
Might I suggest you use “Insta-Princess” if they ever let us change our titles?
I feel your pain, auntie em. My two cats decided that right after Mommy went to bed was a good time to play chase. (They don’t get to sleep with me) Do you know what two cats chasing around the house sounds like?
And I’ve been known to check every room in the house with a butcher knife if I find something suspicious like that happen.
I think I was girlier about these things before I had kids. Nowadays, whoever wakes up is the Defender of the Home, and the other one is (groggy) backup. I also do minor home repairs, take care of the cars, deal with ALL phone calls (Mr. Legend is apparently allergic to telephone receivers and can’t touch them, even when it’s his own parents calling), handle all the money, call the plumber when necessary, walk the dog, clean up after all the pets (although the children are getting old enough to help), take the trash out, and dispatch all pests, living or dead.
Mr. Legend brings home big paychecks and tells me whether the home projects I’ve thought of doing are physically possible or not. He’s also the only one with the patience to do projects with the children.
Does it sound anything like two rats wrestling and knocking their cage against the wall?
This is why I love my dogs. When I lie down, THEY lie down. Happily. All those nocturnal creatures just make life hell for a chicken shit in the middle of the night.
In my house I take out all the garbage, retrieve dead mice and even catch live bats (use a coffee can to catch them when they land and release outside) He is master of the garage though and loves his hand and power tools and is a genuine Mr Fixit. In addition all redecorating ideas have to be cleared through him first, he has an incredible eye for color and design, so I just let him hang the wall paper and paint as he inevitably hovers over my shoulder pointing out flaws.
