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Gender equity week is coming... some day, maybe

opinion Perham,Minnesota 56573
Perham Focus
Gender equity week is coming... some day, maybe
Perham Minnesota 222 2nd Avenue SE 56573

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.