A Woman's Work Is Never Done

I recently painted the master bedroom, which wasn’t an easy task considering I had to move a monstrous chest of drawers, a king size bed, a wardrobe that weighs more than my Tundra, and other assorted pieces of furniture, then tape the baseboards and trim before I could even begin painting. I also painted the adjoining bathroom. And while I was doing all this labor, did my darling hubby even once offer to help? Well, not unless you consider it help for him to wander by every now and then, with his pipe clenched between his teeth, poke his head in the doorway, and mumble, “Looking good, honey.” Then again, I guess you could qualify that as help of a sort, rather like when fans cheer on an athlete from the sidelines; it counts as moral support. 

Tina Jenkins, Google Images 2014

Chet’s contribution to this project, though, was the same as his contribution a few years back when I painted the entire outside of the house, a chore that took me three weeks to complete, because at the time I was teaching on campus Monday through Thursday and could devote only three days each week to painting, and that was between doing all the other chores, for instance, mowing the lawn, shopping for groceries, cooking the meals, doing the laundry, and cleaning the house. 

Taking Care of a Home Is a Full time Job

Raquel English, Google Images 2014

The reality, of course, is that I do all of the manual-labor labor around our home, and for the jobs I can’t do, I hire someone, for instance, to do anything related to plumbing or electricity. I most certainly cannot rely upon my hubby because, while Chet may very well be the most brilliant man I’ve ever known (He does have a Ph.D. and a head filled with trivia, after all), he is completely and totally helpless when it comes to anything manual. And that reminds me; he once had the audacity to tell me that one of the reasons he had pursued a higher education was so he wouldn’t have to do any manual labor. My response was, “Well, in that case I think you needed to find a higher paying profession than teaching.” Then again, he married me, and I work for free, so maybe he had a point.

Questions to Ask a Prospective Husband

Marriage to Chet has taught me an invaluable lesson that I would like to share with other women, which is that not all men are born with a hammer in one hand and a Phillip’s screwdriver in the other. In fact, some men don’t even know which end of a hammer to use, and they wouldn’t know a Phillip’s screwdriver if it walked up and bit them in the behind. 

Smartgreenbuild.com, Google Images 2014

Therefore, I believe that before a woman says “yes” to any marriage proposal, she needs to ask her suitor the following questions:  

•  Do you own a socket set?
• Do you own a Phillips head screwdriver?
• Do you own a hammer?
• Do you own a drill, electric or otherwise?
• If you answered in the affirmative to the first four questions, do you know how to use the aforementioned items without causing yourself—or anyone else—serious bodily harm?
• Can you change the oil in a vehicle?
• Can you change a flat tire on a vehicle?
• Do you even know where the jack and spare tire are located in a vehicle?
• Can you crank a lawnmower?
• Can you maneuver a running lawnmower around a yard without pushing through the flowerbeds?
• Can you tell the difference between a paintbrush and a hairbrush?
• If you answered yes to the previous question, can you dip a paintbrush into a can of paint and then apply paint to a wall without dribbling paint all over the floor or splattering it on adjoining walls or the furniture?
• Do you know how to repair a malfunctioning electric light?
• Do you know to turn off the main breaker when you tinker with the wiring on anything electrical?
• Do you know how to replace a leaky faucet on a sink?
• Do you know to turn off the water under a sink before attempting to replace a leaky faucet?
• Do you even know where the shutoff value is located under a sink?
• 18. Do you know that toilets are not meant to flush entire roles of paper towels into the sewer system?
• Have you ever attempted to flush an entire roll of paper towels into a sewer system?
• Are you allergic to physical labor of any kind?

There are other questions I would suggest one ask, but it’s now almost midnight here in in the murky, alligator-infested swamps of south Louisiana, and tomorrow I need to mow the lawn. I also have to drive to Home Depot, purchase 20 bags of mulch, bring them home, unload the bags from my truck, then scatter the mulch in flowerbeds lining the front of the house, but only after I weed the beds. Oh, well, as the old saying goes, “A woman’s work is never done,” especially when she’s married to Chet.

My Herculean Husband Lifts Really Heavy Weights

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

You’re not going to believe this, but my darling hubby told me that felt “insulted” by my last blog. Yes, the one about how much he contributes to cleaning on our traditional housekeeping day, which is Saturday. In case, you missed that particular blog, Chet’s contribution is vacuuming. Yes, that’s right; he vacuums while I do everything else. In fact, if we lived on a farm, which we don’t and which is probably a good thing given Chet’s aversion to physical labor, I could get up at the crack of dawn, go out and plow the north 40, and when I finished—you guessed it—Chet would still be vacuuming. Now, back to why Chet was offended by my previous blog.

The reason Chet took offense isn’t what you’re probably thinking. It wasn’t because I said that he vacuums for hours on end while I clean the entire house, cook, mow our lawn, mow the neighbor’s lawn, and paint the living room (A little exaggeration perhaps, but not much). Chet, bless his heart, was upset because, when describing the black hole that’s his office, I said, and I quote, “There are weights stacked in the floor, and by weights, I mean everything from 25-pound dumbbells to 50-pound iron plates.” And just why was Chet affronted by this comment? Well, are you ready? It was because, in his opinion, the way I phrased the comment made it sound as if he lifts “baby weights,” and I should have described his weights more accurately in terms of poundage. (Roll of eyes)

Okay, so here goes: My herculean hubby, with his rippling pectorals (pecs) and gun-sized biceps lifts these really, really humongous weights. His dumbbells begin at a mere 15 pounds but go all the way up to a whopping 80 pounds, which he uses with absolutely no effort at all in order to execute curls, one-arm rows, flies, and other exercises, the names of which elude me at the moment. Oh, and the iron plates that he uses range from a lowly two-and-a-half pounds all the way up to an astounding 50 pounds, and he mixes these different weight plates (Hmm, weight and plates rhymes) to achieve maximum poundage for various exercises. For instance, he lifts 275 pounds when performing an exercise called the “dead lift,” And, by the way, he said to make sure that I tell everyone that he uses “good form” when executing movements and that no one is “spotting” him. ” In other words, it’s “all him.” (Another roll of eyes)

Also let me add that Chet has a curl bar, in addition to dumbbells, which he loads with plates of varying poundage in order to perform, well, curls obviously, and whatever other exercises one performs with a curl bar (The actual names of these exercises also elude me at the moment). He has another bar as well, though it’s straight instead of curved, which he loads with assorted plates to execute squats, and his squats aren’t “sissy” squats either but “macho” squats where his behind is “parallel” to his knees (Or something to that effect). Oh, and these are really heavy squats, too. (Don’t ask me how many pounds he uses because I haven’t the foggiest, but I know it’s a lot.)

Okay, there; I’ve clarified the matter of how much weight my darling hubby lifts. It’s now on record. He doesn’t lift “baby weights.” He lifts these really heavy, and I do mean heavy, weights and his dumbbells go all the way up to 80 pounds. Chet is so very strong, so absolutely herculean, that I’m surprised someone hasn’t nominated him for Mr. Universe. How’s that? Oh, and by the way, I not only cleaned the entire house today, cooked dinner, and did the laundry, I also vacuumed.

Mr. Fix It--Not My Husband

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

I have a confession to make: Even though I know it’s wrong to categorize all members of a particular group of people based upon the behavior or traits of a few members, at times I have been guilty of harboring certain stereotypes about the opposite sex. For one, I once believed that all men enjoyed beer, football, and belching; then I married my now ex-husband, who demonstrated that while men might enjoy belching, they did not necessarily enjoy beer or football. Another stereotype I once embraced was that all men were born with a wrench in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other. In other words, I believed that all men were like my daddy and “handy” with tools. And, being handy with tools, they could fix anything that needed fixing around the house, from a broken bicycle chain to a malfunctioning toaster to a leaking roof. However, this stereotype was shattered—in fact, it was shattered so resoundingly that the earth trembled from the aftershock—when I married my current husband, Chet.

You don’t know Chet, but believe me when I say he looks very “manly.” He’s six-feet-tall and weighs 205 pounds (all muscle since he works out, pumping iron like a fiend). But Mr. Fix It, he isn’t.

Not that I knew this about Chet in the beginning. Instead it was a gradual realization that crept up on me, rather like a fog curling in over the Appalachian foothills on an August morning, although I had the first inking that he might not be “Mr. Fix It” shortly after he and I were married. 

What happened was the dryer broke. Yes, the dryer broke; and since I knew, based upon a long-held stereotype of the male gender, that all men could fix things around the house, when Chet said, “I’ll fix it,” I never gave it another thought. Well, at least not until Chet pulled the dryer out into the middle of the kitchen, where he proceeded not to fix it, but instead to analyze it.

I kid you not. See, Chet has a Ph.D. in history, and being highly educated, he’s a really smart guy; however, since he’s so educated and so smart, Chet believes that one must do one’s research before drawing a conclusion or taking any course of action, even if the end result of that course of action involves a procedure as relatively uncomplicated as fixing a broken dryer. This being the case, instead of promptly repairing our broken dryer, Chet, with tablet in hand, proceeded to call several appliance-repair shops in the area and take voluminous notes, after which he wandered off to his office, where he studied those notes in order to learn all he could about the “inner workings” of electric dryers. This process, however, took him about a week since Chet alternated studying his notes with teaching at the local college, working out at the gym, and drinking beer while watching football games on television.

Not that this was all Chet did because at some point (probably during a commercial), he did manage to pick up a pair of pliers and take apart the dryer. But did he fix it? Not exactly, but he did manage to take apart the dryer. And that dryer stayed in that condition, taken apart, pieces scattered hither, thither, and yon all over the kitchen floor for another week. And why did the dryer remain in pieces? Well, it remained in pieces because my dear hubby decided that he needed to conduct additional research.

According to Chet, he needed to perform one-on-one, face-to-face research with an appliance repairman instead of over-the-phone, voice-to-voice research with said repairman since he feared he might have transcribed some data incorrectly during his first fact-finding mission.

So, to make a long story even longer, another week passed, during which I lugged detergent, fabric softer, and hampers filled with dirty clothes to the local Laundromat in between working as a telemarketer for a local heating-and-air company and taking courses at the college, while Chet conducted additional research, after which he studied his voluminous new notes in between teaching, working out at the gym, drinking beer, and watching football. 

Then, one day I returned home after an American Lit class and the dryer was back together again, all in one piece, with Chet standing beside it and beaming with pride.

I froze in the doorway, overcome with emotion. I’m not sure what emotion, although I think it was shock.

Waving one hand with a flourish, Chet tapped the top of the dryer and announced, “Voila, it’s fixed.”

“It’s fixed?” I managed to say.

He shrugged as he pointed to the table, upon which lay several bolts and a metal plate of some kind. “Well” he said, “I did have a few parts left over, but I don’t think they’re vital.” With another shrug he added, “And maybe the door won’t close all the way, so you’ll have to prop something against it; but watch this!” He then reached over and pressed the button to start the dryer. And do you know what? That dryer came on and worked like new. Granted, it had taken Chet three weeks to fix it, and, granted, it had missing parts and the door wouldn’t close properly, but I’ll hand it to my husband; he did fix that dryer. And do you know something else? Not once during those three weeks did Chet belch, at least not within my hearing.

That’s it for now; but maybe in a future blog I’ll tell you about the time Chet fixed the vacuum cleaner. Better yet, the kitchen sink. No wait; let’s make it the time he attempted to fix the light in the bathroom. Now, that’s a story that’ll curl your hair.