Has Anyone Seen My Mop?

I am even entrusted to wash the quilts.

Has Anyone Seen My Mop?

In Spanish, the word mal means bad, besides-coincidentally I am sure-being the first three letters of the word “male.” 

Well, I’m here to tell you that I am male: Hear me roar!

I am a male. I don’t drive a monster pickup truck; no, it’s this cute (if that word can legitimately be applied to pickups by a male) Ford Ranger. 

I am male. I don’t get drunk on weekends, or any other time for that matter. I am quite efficient at playing the fool, without the element of alcohol, thank you so much.

I am male.  I don’t ogle anything in a skirt, unless she is Annie. Respect is a concept that supersedes any other.

I am a male. I scrub the toilet every morning of my life because, well, it needs it.

I am male. I empty the trash, recycling and compost as needed, without having to be reminded about it every six months.

I am male. I refuse to acknowledge discomfort until such point as hospitalization is required. Surgery can then be expected to follow.

I am male. I bring Annie coffee in bed every morning of her life that we are in the same venue, and have done so since January, 1981. 

As many cups as she desires. 

I'm not that complicated of a guy when it comes to laundry.

I am male. I do my laundry, the household laundry, and Annie’s laundry, when she is in a trusting frame of mind. 

I am inordinately careful with Annie’s laundry.

I am male. I could no more make love to a woman not named Annie, than I could vote for Donald Trump.

I am male. I sweep, I dust and I mop. Ever since Annie has been poorly, I do my best to ensure that she does not sweep, dust nor mop. 

She needs her strength for more important battles than house-cleaning.

I am male. I wash the dishes after we eat and I always have. Being the fourth consecutive son born to Robert and Pauline, prior to my poor sister JT arriving amidst all that maledom, I learned at a very young age that if I wanted to eat, I had better learn how to do the dishes. 

There was no shame in pot-walloping in our household.

I am male. I learned how to peel potatoes, dice onions/bell peppers and slice carrots/radishes as soon as I was old enough to stand on a stool at the counter and keep my mouth shut. 

I’d like to say that the two tasks were equally challenging, but that would be a falsehood.

I am male. I am squeamish at the sight of blood, except for my own or that of kids and Annie.

I am male. I hate scary films. It’s not a matter of dislike; it’s a matter of self-preservation.

That's Lito hitchhiking...

I am male. When the boys were still small, I habitually had one in a backpack on my back, while I went about the business of washing dishes, cooking or restocking the woodbox.

I’d bet my bottom dollar that each of my three sons will do the same for his children.

I am male. I am a sucker for a romance movie, especially if it is a drama.

I am male. Though I enjoy professional football immensely, I have never watched a hockey game on either television, or in person. I do not like to watch dudes punch each other in the face. 

At least in football, you don’t generally see the nasty stuff, or if you do, it is heavily penalized.

I am male. I learned how to cook from watching my father cook for a family of eleven, intoning as he sampled the ambrosia he was preparing,  “To the North, to the South, to the East, and to the West. And to all of the gods in the universe, to Mercury, and to Mars…”

I am male. I open doors for women, help Annie on and off with her winter coat and jump up to refill the glass of any female who happens to cross the threshold of my home.

I am male. I cuss like a mofo, except when there are females present (Annie excepted, because she can out-cuss me any day of the week and twice as colorfully before she has had that first aforementioned cuppa Joe.)

I am male. I will not apologize if your male cannot keep it in his pants. It sounds like a personal problem so maybe you should talk to a chaplain.

I am male. In the unlikely instance that I would be hit on again by another male, I would feel the same way I did the other time: genuinely flattered but as just equally, genuinely uninterested. 

Why would I feel any other way?

I am male. If you are a guest in my home, you may sit and enjoy an after-dinner bowl if you’d like, but you will not be doing any dishes.

When I visit your home for a meal, then you can do the dishes for me.

I am male. I could no more hit a woman-or a kid/dog-than I could poke an ice pick in my eye.

Make that both eyes.

I am male; hear me roar, “Has anyone seen my mop?”