Gender equity week is coming... some day, maybe
Gender Equity Week is coming again. It's a period of time when men and women pay hypocritical homage to the myth that both sexes were created equal.
Of course, they're not.
I know, because I once lived in a house with four Females. That meant four of Them, and only one of me. Some might call that a "battle for gender equity." That's pretty fancy wording. I called it, back when it was happening, "Out-numbered, out-estrogened, and out-witted."
I did put up a good fight, once in a while, living with Them, about as good a fight as a man can put up while his bladder is bursting and he's standing outside his own bathroom door.
I would shout: "Let me in before I explode!"
Fourteen and Sixteen, who were the two youngest Females of the tribe still home, Eighteen being off to college, were inside the bathroom. They said back, in a distracted tone, which they used when they were doing stuff to their hair: "The car needs gas, dad."
Anything. I took out a 20.
Them: "Slip it under the door, and then back up three steps." It wouldn't really take three steps. They're obviously quicker than I am.
I pushed the 20 under the door, and asked to be let in. Quick.
I heard Them whisper. Then They said: "You have to check the oil, too."
Me: "I will. Please. In. Now."
Them: "We don't think so. You forgot the toilet seat rule yesterday. You have to say the Poem of Toilet Contrition."
Me: "No. I refuse."
Them: "No admittance, then, unless you do the Poem. And don't forget the dance."
So I said, while I did the dance: "Every time I use the potty. Every time I drop around. Number one or number two. Put the potty lid back down."
Them: "OK. Come in."
But it was too late, once again. All that dancing on a full bladder - they always get me on that. I went and changed clothes.
Eighteen is off in college, like I said, where she still has her finely-honed Them instincts. Even though she's a hundred miles away. The other day she called.
Her: "Dad? Have they let you into the bathroom yet?"
Me: "Nope. At least, not in time."
Her: "Send me a couple of hundred bucks. I'll put in a good word for you."
Me: "I'm a little short on money right now."
I asked her, after looking in my pockets: "What can I get for a nickel, one gopher foot, and two used crying tissues?"
Her: "Well, not too much, Dad, although I could put in a good word for you with Ms. Hum-Slosh The Clothes Washer." (Ms. H-M is a gender-spiteful man-hater who lurks patiently in the basement for my clothing.
Me: "Really? You're not just saying that to get my hopes up?"
Her: "That check is in the mail, right?"
Me: "Sure. As good as spent. Say. Can you ask her not to eat my shirtsleeves, and not flush half my stockings out to sea?"
Her: "Ummm. Maybe I can let you in on the secret Poem of Washing Machine Contrition you can chant for her. It goes: Roses are red. Ms. Hum-Slosh is blue. Keep your hands off her knobs, or she'll agitate you."
Me: "Hey. You girls are too good to your old Dad."
Gender equity week. Coming. Some day.