I Am Part Of The Problem

Keeping with yesterday's theme of Every Man's Dream, I bring you today's man-rant.

Oh, it's not a rant by a man. I'm no man, by cracky! Which I am reminded of every night when I stand at the stove for an hour and fifteen minutes whipping up four different meals because my three guys don't want the same thing, and then King H announces that he will be outside with the goats or the chickens or in the barn working on some project, so he will warm it up later when he's ready to eat.

Today, sitting in my classroom, hard at work in the dark because the Little General has installed motion-detector sensors to control the overhead lights, I heard the voice of the Little General himself in the hall. "Hey, girl." Was he talking to me? Sweet Gummi Mary! That would never enter his mind. It had to be some sweet young thing or a flirty cook across the hall. Except I don't think we have either at this end of the building. So maybe he was hallucinating due to the lack of ambient light.

I have trouble dealing with men who think they are some woman's gift. Any woman's gift. All wrapped up and tied with a pretty blue bow. It's our own fault, ladies. We treat them like delicate hot-house flowers. Look at those Jersey Shore dudes, and how their mamas cater to them.

I once worked with a girl who married into a local family. We asked how married life was treating her, and she replied, "I just can't get any sleep." Which was a bit TOO MUCH INFORMATION, we told her. And she said, "No! It's not that! Lance's mom always spoiled him. She used to wake him up every night for his 2:00 a.m. feeding. His whole life! Like, right up until we got married. So now I have to bake him a cake or a pie, and wake him up at 2:00 a.m. so he can have some."

That seemed so ridiculous to me at the time. And now, here I am, cooking four different suppers.