Division Of Labor

In my marriage, we have defined roles. I take care of everything and he throws out the garbage.

I don’t want to downplay garbage. It does go out twice a week and it is about thirty yards from the area the cans are stored to the curb….and weather and squirrels can make the matter complicated…but like in many of the households of my friends with “vuvs” (translation: ladies) the division of labor is slightly lopsided.

I am in charge of food, clothing, toilet paper (in my house this is it’s own category), other household necessities, general house maintenance (from plunging toilets overstuffed with toilet paper to enlisting repair men), home improvement projects, finances, child management (which includes several subcategories not otherwise listed here), social calendars, transportation, phone answering (no one else hears it), hair (products, cuts, blowouts), the dog, travel and entertainment, gift-giving regardless of whose relative or friend needs to be “gifted,” service on my car and …..

I am so sure I have forgotten something……

Anyway, I have grown accustomed to my roles, even gotten territorial about them. In other words, I am finally comfortable “in my shoes,” so don’t step on ‘em dammit!

Recently, the husband announced he made social plans for us….on A Saturday night, no less.

“Huh?” I said incredulously. “You don’t make plans,” I said. “That’s my arena. Seriously, do I try to throw out the garbage?”

“I made plans,” he responded while bending down to draw a line in the sand (Okay, he didn’t really bend down and there was no sand, but that was the visual I had at the moment).

“Who is watching Sydney?” I asked, positive that this had been ignored.

“She can hang with their daughter. They have a sitter.”

“Really?” was all I could muster. Then, “Where are we going?”

“They have that covered,” he said. “They made a reservation.”

I had no comeback….so I went with “What if I don’t want to go?”

“Haven’t I gone everywhere you have told me I am going for like the last 18 years?” he asked.

“Cheap shot,” I thought. But again, I had no comeback (except to mutter something about a passive aggressive personality disorder).

All I could do was stamp my feet and wonder if he has actually grown since the last time he tried to do one of my jobs.

He once volunteered to pick up a birthday gift for a ten year old boy’s party that our son Max was attending and I accepted the offer.

“Get some kind of sports shirt,” I said. “You know, like anything Nike.” (I did not mean like the mailman’s “sport shirt.”)

He came home with a Hawaiian print short sleeve button down collared shirt.

“What the hell is this?” I asked him. “What sport would you wear it for and does it say Nike?”

“Surfing is a sport,” he responded, totally ignoring the Nike thing.

“I didn’t say buy a gift for Don Ho. Looks like a shirt George Costanza would buy at Moe Ginsburg….does this look like something a ten year old would like?”

Needless to say, his gift buying days were over…..

And that kind of behavior is how I got most of my roles.

Hmmmmmmmm, big giant light bulb over head. Who is the smarter one? If he actually could make plans, maybe he actually can buy a gift or purchase toilet paper?

This discovery has endless possibilities…….

To discoveries, Vuv-ellas.