"When in doubt, call a man." - My Mom.
This is her philosophy when it comes to lifting heavy objects, smelling rotten food, and fixing all things mechanical. Don't get me wrong. She is a very intelligent, capable woman. She, like many women, has just happened to choose a few (or a slew of) tasks which she detests and/or feels men are more...accustomed to.
I beg to differ, and have thus rebelled on this subject for many years now. My mantra has, since high school, been "Never, ever call a man." This motto has led to me changing my own tires in the dark on the side of the interstate (note to my high school and middle school girls: I do not endorse this kind of dangerous, irresponsible, high-risk behavior), threaten my college roommate with physical violence when she suggested we not fix our own broken toilet, and devising some very creative ways of moving large pieces of furniture.
But, to all who feel that this "fierce independence" is a negative trait, I want to you all to know that, just the other night, I found myself in a situation that, well, necessitated...um...
...calling a man.
That's right. I said it. I did it. I telephoned my father for assistance.
You see, it was really a dire situation. I want to be sure to clarify that it did not involve car trouble, heavy objects, leaky faucets or pickle jars with impossibly tight lids. Nope. Much, MUCH worse than that. A dead mouse.
I was just going about my business the other evening, chatting on the phone with Em about natural child birth and cloth versus disposable diapers (I'm getting old, aren't I?), fixing up some late-night mac'n'cheese, when I noticed a slightly mysterious odor emanating from one of my kitchen cupboards. I dismissed the smell, because my house is old, and has a lot of mysterious odors. Opening a drawer to look for a wooden spoon released a more pungent frangrance. The kind that should not be ignored. Hrmmm. With fear and trepidation I decided to investigate further. I quick peek into the cupboard under the sink revealed a completely rancid smell and the source of the funk. Poor little Mickey. He had not gone quietly. Evidence suggests he fought to the death. But when your little head is tightly clamped in a spring-loaded device of torture, and you don't have opposable thumbs, and there is no one around to hear your cries for help, your don't really stand much of a chance.
I would like to take just a moment at this point in the story to state that I do not have a weak stomach. I worked for a podiatrist for five years and saw lot's and lot's of repulsive things...fully avulsed toenails, gangrenous infections, amputations...that sort of thing. But nothing makes me weak in the knees like a dead animal...especially one that is mangled...and reeks...and is in my kitchen...lying in a puddle of blood...and has apparently been so for more than a few days.
So, when I gained my composure and bid farewell to Emily, I sucked up my pride and did what any self-respecting feminist does in this situation. I called my dad who lives 25 minutes away and asked him to come handle the situation. Let me point out here, too, that my dad is the first person to encourage me to call if I ever need anything (for some reason he's not a big fan of me changing my own tires on the side of the road in the dark...?). So I was merely complying with his wishes and giving him opportunity to be needed, come to the rescue of his little girl and exercise his masculinity. And outrage of all outrages...
HE WOULDN'T COME!!! He told me to call, so I called, and HE WOULDN'T COME!!! Something about it being midnight, and raining, and the mouse being dead and harmelss. He told me to take care of it myself. He even offered me a few suggestions. Paper towels. Plastic bags. Rubber gloves. But he WOULDN'T COME!
You see? You see why I don't call men? Because they WANT to be needed by women, but when we are truly in a desperate circumstance, they want you to deal with your OWN dead mouse. Figures....ha ha.
So, in closing, I want you all to know that I did take care of my own dead mouse. With a stick. Holding my breath. And trying not to look. It was quite traumatic. But, now that I've faced that fear, I'm pretty much sure that there isn't anything left that I can't handle...
