SNIPS OF SNAILS AND PUPPY DOG TAILS

Men, boys, or anyone of the male persuasion, please stop reading right now.

No, I mean it. Stop. You are going to get your tender feelings hurt if you keep reading.

Okay - but I warned you.

Get your hankies out then, dudes.

WHEN A WOMAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- She unloads the dishwasher and takes care of the clean dishes.

- She scrapes, rinses, and places all plates, glasses, silverware in an orderly fashion that will ensure a thoroughly complete washing by the machine.

- She runs the garbage disposal to ensure no back-up when the machine runs.

- She fills the machine with detergent, sets it on the proper cycle for the load, and begins it.

- She washes by hand as necessary any large pots, pans and lids that cannot fit in the washing machine.

- She dries and puts away the aforementioned pots, pans and lids.

- She wipes down the stove, the counters, the kitchen island.

- She sweeps the floor, and wipes up any spills.

- She empties the trash, and takes it out to the container in the garage or on the street..


WHEN A MAN CLEANS THE KITCHEN AFTER DINNER:

- He sticks as many dishes as will fit, regardless of what is already in the dishwasher or if they are possible already washed, higgly-piggedly on top of each other.

- He leaves any large pots, pans and lids that do not fit on the counter or the stove.



- He doesn't even think about running the garbage disposal, checking the dishwasher settings, or taking out the overflowing trash.



- And if having a really good day, begins the dishwasher.



What prompted this sexist post?

It wasn't even washing the dishes.

My husband, bless his sweet little heart, browned the hamburger for our sloppy joes while I was driving home from the doctor's appointment yesterday.

And when I, the female in the house, did the dishes that night, I didn't understand why the skillet was so incredibly encrusted and difficult to clean.

Then I realized something.

He had obviously browned the hamburger and stirred it... maybe twice in the entire process. Burning the pan.

Why are men so difficult... nay, impossible to house-train?

BEING A GENTLEMAN

I am openly... conflicted.

There. At least I admit it.

I grew up in the 60's and 70's - the whole woman's lib, going bra-less (yeah, I used to be able to get away with it, can you believe it?), wearing jeans, equal jobs, equal pay...

Well, we are still working on the last two, right?

But I was a feminist.

I wouldn't let guys open doors for me - I would ask them to dance rather than wait to be asked (which, at least at high school dances, guaranteed a lot of time dancing) - I at least three times got hired for jobs that were supposed to be 'male' jobs (and had to go through a whole lot of convincing, all three times).

I had to re-train my husband when we first began dating; he had been taught that the girl/woman should wait in the car until the guy came around to open the car door for her.

Yeah, that happened. Once.

I have no problem with politeness - my sole objection was being treated in a different manner because I was female.

Now, fast forward about 35 years.

I am at that age where I am not quite ready to be given a senior discount... but I'll ask for one. I'm proud to be a grandmother... but I secretly enjoy it when people say, "No! You're not old enough to be a grandmother!" and all those polite expressions that are used.

And I admit that I enjoy being, well, mistaken for a MATURE individual - someone who has had experience. I have enough gray hairs that I can b.s. my way through a WHOLE lot of stuff.

So when a man opens a door for me NOW, I now take it as a sign of RESPECT, not sexism rearing its ugly head.

And, I must admit, that when I have 1,050 lbs. of hay to unload from my pickup and into a hay shed...

I would like a man to at least OFFER to help.

36" INSEAM

I must admit to being vertically challenged.

When I was four, I towered over my niece, who was a year older than me. I thought it had something to do with her being a blonde.

At age eight, I was as tall as my mother. I thought it had something to do with wearing high heels all the time (I'm not saying any of these thoughts were in any way logical).

At age twelve, I was the same height as my brother, who was five years old than me. I thought it had something to do with his long-term relationship with various chemicals.

By fourteen, I was taller than any boy in middle school. I thought it was simply because boys were so stupid.

In college, I worked at a roller-skate rink, which added four inches to my height, and learned not to be ashamed of it. (NOTE: that was also the year Randy Newman wrote the song "Short People").

Okay, Hope, is this leading to anything, like, SIGNIFICANT?!

Well, I am glad you asked that question. Because the answer is (drum roll, please) the JCPenney Spring Catalog.

Yes.

On the very first page, wide-leg jeans CA 844-5170, Misses Long, has a THIRTY-FIVE INSEAM!!

Around the world, women who are taller than 5'7", use coupon code CASVE10 before March 8th.

And no, I am not getting paid for this free advertising. Although, JCPenney, if you would like to send some bucks my way, I would not turn it away.

NOT A PRETTY WOMAN

I am the antiphrasis (the opposite) of fashion. My entire life has been a fight against the fashion police - my mom, my older sisters, and (I don't what I did in a previous life to warrant this, but it musta big something BIG) my oldest daughter.

Somehow I was born with the idea that clothing is to cover our nakedness and keep us warm if and when necessary. And to me, blue jeans, a tee shirt, sweatshirt and shoes is enough to deal with that.

And I have to assume that there ARE women out there who purchase things like this.

If this is a way to stimulate the economy... well, I'm not playing.

Now, office supplies - now with THOSE I can go completely overboard with. I have never met a file folder that I love. There is no such thing as too many paper clips. Hand me a storage box; my knees are weak.

Something like this - Lord, take me now, my life is complete.

POSITION OPEN

NEEDED TO START IMMEDIATELY: Hard working self-starter for chores, decision making, decorating and repairs. Must be a professional-trained nutritionist, personal fitness trainer, motivational speaker and voice coach.

I'm tired of being the one who is always in charge.

One of the nicest things about being in vacation is that you don't have to do the things you detest. If your laundry piles up, hey, it's vacation. The walls that need to painted, the microwave which was bombed last night by someones left-overs, the film of dust on the piano... none of it has to be addressed.

The sagging stomach muscles, the skimming of important documents - when I get home, I promise.

You can take the second dessert without any guilt - stay up late talking because you don't have to get up early tomorrow. You obviously have earned the time off, so why worry.


Which only worsens coming back to the waves of unfinished laundry, stacked piles of unopened mail, empty cupboards, animal hair everywhere.

Suddenly you have to acknowledge the scale which says yes, you still have 45 lbs. to lose - the mirror that screams, WHY HAVE YOU NOT BEEN MOISTURIZING - the church that whispers, you don't have your two grandchildren as an excuse anymore, you need to attend your meetings!

But our heating system is what began this train of thought. It's sort of like a faithful wife - you don't her until she is gone. This winter has been a particularly cold one, and our trustworthy little heater just keeps grinding on and spewing forth slightly warm air until the requested temperature is reached, and then shuts off with only one small gasp.

And yesterday, she seemed to be working just fine; at least the groan was familiar. It was a cold day, but I was accustomed to wearing three shirts, so I didn't notice any change.

Until it was 11:30 p.m., and when I walked back in the house after saying good night to Najale and Sally. And opening the front door, anticipating that nice rush of warm air.... in vain.

Some of you must have husbands who at least pretend to be a handyman. Who stare knowingly at the gauges, bang the machine with something silvery, take some things off and place theses greasy, dirty parts right on the newly cleaned carpet. That take two trips to Ace Hardware, come back with various mechanical pieces that turn out to be part c-117 and NOT the essential part C-118.

And then you call in a professional to fix the stupid thing - it takes him 12 minutes, and costs you $178.00.

My husband's honesty in this area should be commendable, but it drives me NUTS.

"Hey, honey, the heater isn't working!"

And that's it.

So then I am the one who has to stare knowingly at the gauges, bang the machine with something silvery, and take the two trips to Ace Hardware.

Fortunately, I, being the superior sex, also unplugged and replugged every wire I could see, cleaned out the fan area and rebooted the entire system.

And it worked.

I dust off my hands and sit back down in proud superiority.

WANNA BET ON THAT?

There a lot of differences between men and women.


No, let me rephrase that. There are hardly any similarities between men and women. It isn't "women are from Venus, men are from Mars" - women are from Earth, and men are from a galaxy far, far away that obviously still operates under primeval laws of survival.


But tonight, a man (read that "primitive life form") tried to convince me that his wife (read "mature intelligent adult"), whom I also have known for the past, uh, let's see, nine plus years (read that "know from personal experience to be a awesome woman"), would NOT pay any reasonable airfare to see any potential (read that "now with two married children, bounded to happen soon") grandchildren.


HA!


I have discovered the reward for not killing our own children through their terrible-twos, the fiendish fours, stinking sevens, terrible tens, precocious pre-adolescents, temper-tantrum-throwing teenagers and all-knowing-and-condescending young adult....


... is that eventually, hopefully, they give you wonderful, incredible and dear grandchildren that you can nurture, spoil and just generally fall in love all over again.