Version 2As if the world isn’t confusing enough, now there is gender neutrality. Don’t get me wrong. I understand that many folk have spent a lifetime feeling as if they were born into the wrong body or that they look in the mirror and see neither male, nor female. I don’t judge. After all, I had no issue with Caitlyn Jenner until I learned that she never paid the price for a DUI hit and run that he committed and that she is a Trump supporter. Really Caitlyn? You do know his stand on people like you, right?

And, well, okay, I have a HUGE issue with the non-gender-specific pronoun “they.” I have spent my life correcting bad grammar and fighting the uphill fight that is correct subject/verb usage. Not only do I wage this war against others, but also within myself. I was in college before I learned that “theirselves” wasn’t a word.

Still, with a daughter in a Chicago art school, it is my duty to stay hip to the kids these days and allow gender fluidity into my heart and into my sentence structure. Sometimes I wish that I could allow gender fluidity into my marriage. Why does Spousal Unit have to be such a MAN?

I just walked the back forty with the dog to oversee the destruction that was Spousal Unit’s version of weeding a couple of weeks ago. Dead piles of honeysuckle lay along the fence line. Did he think after he butchered all of the plants that the dead stuff would just disappear into the ground Harry Potter style? The ugly-assed chain-link fence leers at me like a drunk unable to stand straight. Honeysuckle used to hide the drunk uncle as well as its equally ugly-assed wife, the neighbors’ old wood fence. Now they stand, expecting a kiss and a hug from their long-lost niece.

I thought Spousal Unit and I had communicated. Apparently we didn’t. Sometimes I have imaginary marriage counselor meetings in my head. They go as such.

Me to MC: He asked how he could help in the yard. I told him the weeds in the side yard were out of control.

MC: So, did you ask him for what you need?

Me: Well, yeah. I asked him to weed the side yard.

MC: Did you ask that specifically?

Me: I’m not sure I used those exact words, but surely he knew what I meant.

Spousal Unit: You said the side was out of control. I hate honeysuckle.

Me: But we NEVER pay attention to that side of the back yard. I was talking about the chest-high weeds that are visible from satellite view alongside our driveway that EVERYBODY sees. In the FRONT yard.

MC: So appearances are important to you? Talk to me about your inability to set boundaries and your inability to ask for what you need.

Spousal Unit and Marriage Counselor look at me expectantly. Even in my imagination these things go south.

In a world where a word such as mansplaining exists, tell me why oh why oh why do we have to explain so much to a man. My mind can’t begin to jump to the conclusions his does. I can’t foresee that my mentioning that the weeds on the side yard (which is the term we have ALWAYS used for the patch alongside the driveway) house saber-tooth tigers will trigger his hatred of honeysuckle.

As I do in any situation that is unfathomable to me, I call my mother. Although she’s somewhat sympathetic, she can’t send much pity my way because she needs it all for herself. After all, she’s been married to my dad for more than sixty years.

My mother likes for things to be beautiful, aesthetically pleasing. It’s where Girl Child gets her artistic bent. She also likes for things to be clean. I’m assuming that gene is waiting for generations yet to be born. My mother still spring-cleans, bless her heart.

Several years ago, when my paternal grandfather was still alive, my mother had spent an entire week spring-cleaning the family room. In Nanna vernacular, spring-cleaning means washing curtains, dark-paneled walls, woodwork, light fixtures and knickknacks. Not dusting them, but washing them, carrying each knickknack, each piece of Blenko glass or collectable stein upstairs to the kitchen to a pan of warm ammonia water and washing it.

In recollecting the incident, she disassociated and continued her recitation of what entailed spring-cleaning in a monotone voice. “I clean the windows inside and out, even if it is fifteen degrees outside. Vacuum. I vacuum all the dust out of the upholstery. Vacuum the lampshades. There had to be hundreds of encyclopedias and books.” She grew quiet, but I remember what happened.

Shortly after this particularly energetic spring-cleaning, my dad and his dad decided that a long-awaited home improvement project was in order. He would install lovely French doors, replacing dated and unwieldy 1970s sliding doors that led from the family room to the patio.

They brought in lumber. They measured twice and cut once. They framed the doorway and installed the lovely French doors. A fine layer of sawdust settled upon everything. “Everything on the shelves in the family room turned a sudden whitish grey,” my mother recalls, speaking in the detached way a crime victim repeats his or her story.

That tragic day is etched into my memory banks forever. My mother cried. Literally. Real tears. Anguished tears. My dad and his dad were incensed. After all, didn’t she WANT those lovely French doors? What an ungrateful shrew to wail and gnash her teeth after they worked so hard to install something she’d wanted for so long.

She remembers another day when she arrived home from work to see her beautiful silver maple, her favorite sight from her kitchen window cut to less than half its previous height and roughly shaped like a truffela tree. She had made the mistake of mentioning that the tree needed trimmed. My dad and his dad had saved money by doing it themselves. They were proud. She was devastated. She asked my dad if they’d sat on lawn chairs and just sawed from where they were sitting.

It’s not just lawn care and home improvement projects where women risk great loss if they aren’t precise with their requests. When we were in the trenches of child-rearing, where I was fairly certain that the two beings who had sprung from my body were hell bent on destroying me, that they received their sustenance from eating my brain and sucking out my soul. Occasionally, I would realize my limitations and raise the white flag of surrender.

“Can you bring home dinner?” I would plead to the father of these beasts, believing that Taco Bell was the least he could do. “I don’t think cooking is gonna happen today.”

“Sure,” he would answer good-naturedly and I’d wonder if three o’clock was too early for wine.

He would arrive home, expecting his Father Knows Best moment of clean, adoring children reaching up to him for happy kisses and stories of adventurous days. Instead, there would be a mud-covered girl child screaming at her big brother to give it back while the equally muddy boy child told her he just needed it for a minute, for this one invention that would….”

I interrupted with my own scream. “WHAT IS THIS?”

“It’s dinner.”

I would paw through the bags of raw chicken, fresh vegetables and uncooked pasta.

“No, it’s not. It’s GROCERIES. Dinner is what is already cooked. Dinner is what you put on paper plates and throw away because if I have to wash another dish, human, toy, or wall that somebody smeared with mud, somebody is going to get hurt. I did not ask for GROCERIES. I asked for DINNER.”

His face looked much like my dad’s and grandfather’s after installing some lovely French doors. It is a sad and pitiful face and one I would feel sorry for if it didn’t remind me so much of a puppy who has just piddled on the floor. That face that makes me want to scream, “No!” at and smack it across the nose with a folded newspaper. (Please note that I smack neither puppy, nor spouse with a newspaper; I simply fantasize.)

Because I don’t want to deal with that pitiful face this evening, I shall not tell him that his lawn care attempts are as effective as a climate-change denier heading the EPA. Because I can’t explain to him what I meant when I said weed the side yard, without getting a nervous tic that simulates stabbing him with a dull knife, I shall remain mum.

I do think I’ll ask him to bring home dinner. Is three o’clock too early for a glass of wine?



One thought on “Mansplainin’

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s