The gender wars are a hot potato and I don’t tread into those waters lightly. But the other night I was inspired. So here it is feminists, may you tar and feather me for the latent misogyny that I unleash. Since I am a Western man it’s likely I’ve done something to deserve it. It’s what I was trained for, after all. So here I go.
Before I proceed, I think it’s fair to lay out exactly where I stand on the issues that demarcate the gender divide. First, I am a man, and therefore not a woman. Second, I am male, and therefore not a female. I know I could be either a woman or a female if I really wanted to, but I don’t; not that there would be anything wrong with it if I did. There are many days I really wish I didn’t have a penis, so I totally understand why a dude would want to rid himself of the crippling appendage. It’s like our tether to chaos, at times.
I think there’s a few things we can all agree about the differences between the sexes:
1. Males can’t have babies.
2. Females can’t have an erection, and don’t live in perpetual fear of getting kicked in the balls.
3. Men are socialized to be knuckle-dragging cretins who desire to conquer, dominate, and ultimately destroy everything on the planet, including the planet itself.
Other than that, until today I would have said those were the only definitive, universal differences between the sexes. Then, I went in the kitchen and saw this:
This is the pile of dishes my partner made today. ‘Pile of dishes’ doesn’t do justice to the masterpiece that is this, um, pile of dishes.
Okay, my partner is a woman, which I don’t object to. I happen to like women who are female, and the point of this blog post is to highlight something distinct about females who are women. Or, females who aren’t men. She’s a woman with a vagina. You figure it out.
She made that pile and I’ve never ever been able to produce anything like it. The other day I tried to match the feat, and broke a really nice gravy boat in the process, which wasn’t cool. Like making babies, gingerly stacking a pile of clean dishes is yet another thing men can’t do which makes us that much more stupid and depraved than women. We’re just a bunch of knuckleheads who need thirty square feet of counter space to lay out an evening meal’s worth of dishes so they’ll dry.
I have scientific proof. My mother, my ex-wife, my ex-mother-in law, and now my partner (the female woman) all have been able to erect mountains of dishes that spanned vertically into the stratosphere. When I do dishes I can’t do that, and I’ve never seen any man’s pile of dishes come anything close to what you see pictured here. Men tend to make Mongolian steppes of dishes, not Mount Everest.
My ex-father-in-law was mentally and physically incapable of doing dishes at all. He only ate from dishes and piled them in the sink on top of the other food-encrusted dishes. In reality, I think he probably did that to get under the skin of my hectoring ex-mother-in-law. It’s no wonder they are separated. You learn a lot about a couple from how they navigate the touchy subject of dishes. I knew they were doomed years before they split; my ex-father-in-law was completely whimsical with his dishes, quite frankly.
My grandfather put his dishes in the dishwasher and didn’t believe in piling them up – either dirty in the sink or clean in the dish-rack. But he was a great cook. Man, I miss his Fettucine Alfredo. He and my grandmother used to stand on either side of the dishwasher as they filled it up after a great feast. They were in the kitchen, dishing with each other until the day my grandfather died. He went to the grave after forty-eight years of marriage, having licked his plate totally clean when he left us.