Top Five Reasons It Might Be Nice To Be A Man

I’ve already detailed my reasons for thanking the Good Lord I was born with a uterus in my post Top 5 Reasons I’m Glad I’m Not a Manbut after further research and an in-depth look into my family dynamics I’ve come up with some reasons it might actually be handy to carry the “Y” chromosome.

I’ve always been a “girly-girl” and I’m pretty sureIshould hail from the late 19th century given my yearning to be therecipient of old-fashioned male chivalry. Ilove me a good “yes ma’am” and always appreciate an opened car door…and the occasional duel for my honor. (Okay, so I’ve never been the focus of a “duel for honor” but Idid get into a mean childhood fight in the orchard next to my house. Let’s just say I cleaned house. Okay, not really. But I was there.)All in all, I love beinga woman. But we all know, birthing children aside, women have a heavy load to haul and typicallylack the capacity to let things “roll off our backs”, much unlike our genetic counterparts. After some thought, I’ve come up with five reasons itwould be mighty handy to be a man.

1) Urinating while standing. This gift applies to both in and out-of-doors (particularly, the latter). Have you ever noticed that using the privy as a woman is such a chore? There’s the toilet seat to contend with, the requisite disrobing (only magnified if you’re the hose-wearing type), and the almost-never-failing lack of toilet paper at that exact moment that you need it. Using a public restroom?Factor in all of the above along with the fear that you will possibly contract some horrible disease from the publicly-used toilet. Emergency potty stop in the great outdoors? You may not need to worry about a horrible disease but pine needles? A little too close to your hoo-hah? Worrisome. Now, men? Indoors, outdoors, it’s all the same. Open your fly and get the job done.

2) Inherent ability to ignore a mess. It continues to amaze me how easy it is for a man to walk right past a mess on the floor seemingly without noticing anything is amiss. And my husband has an even more amazing ability. Somehow, he not only fails to notice a mess on the floor, he retains an almost superheroic skill of avoiding any contact with said mess by stepping around it. It’s fascinating. Really.I’m jealous.

3) Ability to lose weight. Quickly. Has anyone seen the ‘SlimQuick’ commercial with the cartoon couple trying to lose weight together? The husband shrinks at disgusting rates while the wife fights gaining. As funny as they are, there’s a whole lot of truth to these commercials. And I’m living it. A couple of months ago my hubby walks in, shaking his head,to the living room where I was sweating while Walking Away the Pounds. “What’s up?” I innocently asked, huffing and puffingbetween knee lifts and side-steps. He says, “That’s funny. I’ve lost 10 pounds. Man, I wasn’t even trying! Weird. I’m hungry. What happened to those ding dongs?” How nice it must be to just randomly step on (my arch-nemesis) the scale and be pleasantly surprised that you’ve lost some weight? First of all, I never randomly step on the scale. It takes a lot of motivational talk and sometimesa couple ofmartinis to get me to step on the scale. And pleasantly surprised? Not usually.

4) Unabashed eating and snacking. I’ve already addressed the unfair advantage men have over women at losing weight. They also have the advantage of eating without a care in the world. Want a snack? Go have one. Craving a pizza for dinner? Order it up. Now, I don’t know about you, and I may be in the minority here, but I go through some sort of inner struggle each and every time I open my mouth. It doesn’t matter if I’ve consumed one carrot, two glasses of water and a mini-marshmallow as my day’s caloric intake, I still have to struggle withit. (Oh, and I should quickly add here, the above has actually never happened. I always eat at least two carrots. And a Nachos BellGrande.)

5) Lack of an overactive reproductive system. I would never trade inmy ability to mother my children. Not even for a private concert with the Thunder from Down Under. Hmm. (Okay, I’m back.) That being said, I might be persuaded to give up all the other crap that goes along with having a uterus. Like PMS, and hormonal breakouts, and bouts of crying at touching commercials. And most importantly that dreaded, God-forsaken, monthly visit from that ol’ ho-bag Aunt Flo. This is a part of life that our men will never be afforded the opportunity to experience. Lucky ducks.

When all is said and done, even despite the above examples, I am still grateful to be a woman. Sure it would be nice to give up some of the extra baggage that comes along with being the fairer sex but at the end of the day, I’d much rather carry balloons on my chestthan walnuts in my pants. **wink, wink**

Happy Monday,


Top 5 Reasons I’m Glad I’m Not a Man

I’m pretty sure this post will not be featured in any feminist magazines nor will I be asked to be thekeynote speaker at any futureNOW conventions but I had some revelations today about my husband and the male race, in general. As I was watching my hubby heft gigantic extension cords and Christmas lights all over the rooftopin 20 degree weather as I sat cozily inside sipping hot coffee with heat blasting at my feet I couldn’t help but thank the Lord in heaven that I am not a man, more specifically a man married to me. Sure, women have some pretty hefty crosses to bear, i.e. pregnancy, birth, menstruation, occasional outbursts of pent-up emotions primarily induced by fluctuating hormones, menopause and an overall sense of urgency to save the world and all those who inhabit it. But men, they are a different creature altogether and have a set of obligations I am glad to be sheltered from.

Allow me to explain.

1) Men have hair growing on their faces at alarming rates. Okay, so I know some women (and have occasionally experienced this myself) who can grow hair to rival the manliest of men but in general, women have been spared this phemonenon. My hubby can shave first thing in the morning and by 1:00 that same afternoon look like he’s prepping for the Iditarod. That would drive me insane as I hate it when my legs start sproutingthe 2nd or 3rd day after shavingand hairstarts poking through my bed sheets.

2) I’m not great with insects or rodents. My hubby has the job of exterminating from existence anything which crosses my path. Be it spider, mouse or those black beetle-looking things which hover on doorjams ready to inject some mysterious poison into my bloodstream rendering me incapable of calling for help it is his sworn duty to take it away. I don’t care what he does with it, whether it bemeeting its maker or he goes all Grizzly Adams and releases it back into the wild,as long as it exits my humble abode.

3) I lose all sense of reason when auto maintenance is necessary. It once took me 6 attempts to center my car over the hydraulic lifts at an Oil Can Henrys. I would pull forward andthe dude in the1914 version of a skullcap would wave me back. I’dback up, lock in on the floor markers andslowly make my way forward. Damn. Missed it agian. I seriouslywanted a cigarette after all was said and done and I don’t even smoke. Jer has sincetaken over all things auto. I say,” Good Riddance!”

4) You may already know about my aversion to yardcare. I wholeheartedly admit that this task is often either sharedor assigned to the female in many households. But, in my house this is Jer’s job through and through. If yard maintenance were up to me we would probably have a front and back gravel pit. I love the look of a nicely manicured lawn but cannot muster the patience or skill to produce one. I recently took a stab at raking leaves much to the astonishment of my husband. I got halfway done when a big gust of wind blew threw and scattered my hard work allto hell. I’m glad school hadn’t gotten out yet and there were no kids outside to witness my behavior following the mini windstorm. Let’s just say it was not one of my finest moments. But, short of burning down the front yard, it was a necessary output of mygrowing frustration.

5) My winter driving skills are not up to par. Again, I know there are plenty of women out there with mad driving skills. Huge props to you. I am not one of them. Under the most optimal of conditions I am mediocre at best. I react irrationally, use my brakes more often than necessary, creep down the freeway amidst a melody of honking horns and cursing men and alwayspee my pantsjusta teensy bit.

Now, I readily admit that this list is comprised of things that in most relationships both partners can handle. But, this is my relationship and my list. It has taken 10 years to clearly define the parameters of our matrimony but we have now successfully drawn the lines. I’ll handle the cooking, cleaning and maintenance of the house all the while keeping both of my children clothed, bathed, educated and alive.

Jer happily accepts his list.


What’s the deal with sick men?

It has been a harrowing few days with my little sick man. I think we’ve hit about every high and low, far exceeding anything my imagination could even begin to come up with. Being that Jack has been subjected to just about every medication in the pharmaceutical dictionary he has suffered through mood swings comparable to the likes of Joan Crawford and hallucinations worthy of Woodstock. I’ve held him, rocked him, covered him up, uncovered him, put him down, picked him up, read to him, sang to him and cleaned him up. It’s been a tiring experience but very educational in its own right.

Through all of the ups and downs of Jack’s flu experience I came to one very obvious conclusion: men are big weinies.

Jack, with his “man DNA”, reiterated this very fact to me. There is absolutely no doubt that Jack was very, very ill. And I know how badly his little body hurt. But it was his response to it all that initiated him into that male-dominated existence called Wussville.

I mean, we already knew this, right? I doubt there is a woman out there who hasn’t suffered through this injustice and then complained to her girlfriends about it. Our men get a cold and suddenly it’s the very worst cold that has ever infected it’s way across our great land. We couldn’t possibly understand how bad their wittle froats hurt because we quite obviously haven’t experienced anything near to that intensity of pain and discomfort. Even those of us who have passed children through our loins don’t rate.

MEN: Let me quickly say, please do not take offense to my statements in this post. They are factually-based and can be substantiated by many a study and statistic. I think. If I were to take the time to find some. But here”s the deal…own up to the fact that you are horrendously wimpy when you are sick (we all know it) . Either wholeheartedlyembrace this weakness or (wo)man up and fix the thing. That’s all.

My husband has a sick uniform. The minute, and I mean the very minute, that he coughs his first cough or sneezes his first sneeze he changes into his uniform ofsweatpants, hooded sweatshirt and wool socks, shivering and shaking with the frailty of a man afflicted with…the common cold. He takes a steaming hot bath before bed and hunkers down into his covers pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head determined to “sweat it out.” He swears to me that this method works because he always feels better in the morning. And I’m like, “Yeah, you feel better because you weren’t that sick to begin with and you have a stinkin’ cold, not the Bubonic Plague!”

And in true XY chromosome fashion, my little man did not disappoint. He also wore his sweatpants and socks whileacceptinghis unfortunate fate of “fighting the flu” just like any man…in dire need of sympathy, attention and love from his mommy.I will say though, it’s a hell of a lot more endearing coming from a 3 year-old child than my 35 year-old husband.

Love to all, Mindy