Tag Archives: Men

Who the Hell Made Me Queen of the Toilet Paper?

I’m busy from early morning until late at night. Along with work, trying to find work, and the stress of not having enough work, there is so much to do around here it’s hard to explain, and hard for a man to understand. Many men will help a woman, but only if you ask, and then it’s “OK, but does it have to be done right now?” No, it doesn’t have to be done right this second, but when I have to ask again, and again, and then again…

Women aren’t born nags—we acquire this awful trait out of necessity. Because of the things men can do because of their physical strength or knowledge of magical things like wires, we are beholden to them. When they fix something, we must heap praise upon them. Any tiny thing a man does he must be thanked profusely for, while we run ourselves ragged doing everything else.

He says if I want something done to ask him. See above. So, many women give up and do it themselves, wear themselves out and become resentful. I don’t want to have to hand out assignments, explain how I want it done, then see that it’s carried out correctly. I don’t have children so I don’t understand how men get this way, because I always think if I had a son, I would have taught him how to be self-reliant. Maybe it’s impossible.

(My neighbor across the street from me, whose mother died recently, now owns the house and is a big fat slob. After months of watching bags of household garbage pile up in his yard, I finally asked him to clean it up. He did, but now there’s a new pile. When I see his car gone, I go over there and pick up the garbage he leaves out front, visible to me every day. Not only is it disgusting, but it brings down property values. This 30-year-old guy was spoiled rotten by his mother. So now this is a new fucking chore I have. He also has an unspayed dog he won’t let in the house. When he’s not there, I go fill her water bowl and give her dog biscuits.)

Sometimes I try to just stop doing so much. Let the dishes or laundry pile up, stop picking up around the house, not get a chair to stand on to change a lightbulb. This backfires because my partner doesn’t notice—then when he has no clean T-shirts he comes to me and wants to know what to do. If and when he finally does wash the dishes, I have to do them over because there’s crud on them he missed.

Then there’s the amount of toilet paper some men go through. How did this become my responsibility to make sure there’s more under the sink? If I let us run out there will be none for me. If I let the constant dirt and animal hair slide, if we run out of milk or soap, if the dogshit in the yard doesn’t get picked up—I’m the one it affects, not him. He just doesn’t see it as a problem. He’s never been known to clean a litterbox.

So not only does a woman have to actually do the chores, she has to keep a mental checklist of all the chores that need to be done. It’s fucking exhausting. So what’s the point of even asking—and more importantly, why do I have to ask? I know he doesn’t feel good and I accept this. But there are small things men can do that would make a big difference in a woman’s life.

I think men should live in outbuildings—barns or sheds or tents. Why must we keep them in the house?

And why do I like them so much?

My Alleged Life and Loves

My father owned a hotdog stand—but he had a footlong chip on his shoulder. At Christmas we would garnish the house with mustard greens, something us kids didn’t relish. Sometimes he would lock me out of the house—he was a deadbolt dad. One day he hurt his back coming out of a record shop, turned out he had a slipped disk—every time he moved Bad to the Bone by George Thorogood would play. It didn’t help that he also had digestive problems and ended up with a semicolon.

Only my parents could make a spectator sport out of a card game, they played contact bridge. Whenever my father won a hand, my mother would deck him.

I needed work so I took a position as an artist’s model, but the arrangement was very tiring. I tried to tell the artist I was just a prototype. I cleaned the large homes of wealthy people, even the toilets were commodious. I worked in a butcher shop for a while but had a visceral reaction. Trying to stay employed was frutal, even the car I drove was a lemon but at least it smelled good.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping. When I finally fall asleep the dream team of Ayatollah Khomeini and Satan are nightly visitors. Another dream I have involves a three-eyed monster who demands a pair of trifocals. I try to exorcise but realized I was on a treadmill to hell. Why go through the hassle of body-building when you can just stay home and masticate? I’m a terrible cook though, my deviled eggs are evil, which may explain a lot. I stay powered by transgressed fats and Miracle Whip.

I like to get dolled up now and then but never should have let that hairdresser talk me into the salmon mousse, now every cat in the neighborhood is after me. She lent me a book on skincare and pockmarked the page she wanted me to read. My boyfriend has male pattern baldness, I think it’s argyle.

I had a string of boyfriends in my younger days but could never get the knots out. One eggbeater who was part of the illiterati once decomposed a sonnet for me which I had to throw out. He got mad and left. I scoured the earth for him and went through a lot of sponges which I think he should reimburse me for. He still harbored a grudge, but mooring me with the OED was uncalled for. I said thanks for dredging up the same old shit. He said muck you, I said my sediments exactly. Later he sent me a bouquet of listeria from which I’ve never fully recovered.

An accountant I dated made a killing by filing fraudulent IRS returns for wealthy clients. He was sentenced to life in prison where he gave taxonomy lessons to other classless crooks. I was an accessory, they suspected my velvet choker. When the cops came to arrest him at his office, he tried to pretend he was on the phone, but they insisted on just the fax. We tried to keep the whole thing quiet, but everyone had just returned from a liquid lunch so there were a lot of media leaks. Everything went wrong—figures I’d end up a fugitive from Murphy’s Law.

I dated a black guy back in the ’70s. I loved his hair, it was a real afrodisiac.

In high school I went out with this dyslexic guy. One day he reached for his gnu and got expelled, I think it was through a third floor window.

Another chump who was religious asked me if I was an atheist, I said I’m really more of a diagnostic. He also liked guns—it wasn’t easy to come to grips with the fact that he was a smoothbore skinflint.

I’m done with men, though I still enjoy boys…and raw recruits, when properly prepared, are pretty tasty.