Women make life complicated………. (But don’t tell them we love kinda them for it) :o)

I wrote this a while ago………. Took it out of an email I was writing at the time, and made it stand up on it’s own. Go on……… tell me I’m wrong. :o)

Women make it complicated

That’s the one thing that worries me about getting the love of my life………. women have a gift for making things real complicated……… for example, you fancy something to eat, and they start insisting you heat your beans in a saucepan, transfer them to a clean plate, add lettuce, cabbage, cucumber and stuff like that, and lord knows what else. Most of it has to be bloody opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans, casserole dishes, you-name-it, too.

Then you gotta make up some gravy / sauces / dressings and things called ‘garnishes’; I ask you, what’s a bleddy garnish? All this makes a helluva mess, and so then you’ve gotta wipe up all the clutter, clean the damn chopping board(s) (just the one will never do!), and all the stuff you used to mutilate, sorry ‘prepare’ the food.

Even though you’ve been up to your elbows in soap and water for half the day, you have to wash your hands for the tenth time, get out knives / forks / spoons / chopsticks and other things you never knew existed before you met her, and lay the damn table, using a nice white Irish linen cloth. That’s the one that has to be washed every time you as much as look at it, and not to mention ironed as well afterwards.

I mean…… IRONING a table cloth??? Jees!

Then, because it’s now fast becoming a ‘romantic’ meal, when you thought it was just ‘fancy something to eat’ you gotta turn the telly off, find the candles, fix them in the holder, and light the soddin’ things. Bugger, burnt your fingers. Now you gotta run your hand under the cold tap, and suffer the indignity of being told you’re “such a baby” into the bargain, and not to make a fuss ‘cos it can’t hurt THAT much, (It bleddy well DID!) as she holds your hand under the tap with all the grip of a hairy-assed Sumo wrestler. Strength mysteriously absent when she didn’t have the strength to carry the four-tons of shopping she made you bloody buy yesterday, and on your day off too.

Then you gotta dry your hand in a clean towel, get told off for getting garage grease and stuff under your nails, then get a real bollicking for being vulgar, when you nuzzle up close to her scented long neck and suggest to her that dipping them in some fresh, warm, Pussy Juice would get it off it real easy. Her sensitivity is pretty rich considering she spent half of last night with her legs over your shoulders, shouting “FUCK ME!! FUCK ME!!” to the neighbours.

There were you, thinking that it was what you were doing all along, surprised and dismayed that she hadn’t noticed you were doing your bloody best! She shouted “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”, so you’d tried to get a few more revs up, without falling out and missing a stroke, despite the cramp in your left calf and splitting a couple of toenails scrabbling for some grip with the other leg on the damn slippery black silk sheets. The ones she suggestively mentioned would be soooo sexy. The ones you knew bloody well were going to be trouble the second you looked at the price tag, as you coolly flourished the plastic to impress her with your New Man Spares No Expense style.

Anyway, by the time she’s got the Burneeze cream out, and struggled with the plasters that won’t stick because of the overzealous application of the cream plastered on your fingers, everything has gone all to pot, quite literally. The gravy’s gone all weird, the stuff you opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans/ casserole dishes/ you-name-it, has gone all to hell too, and the candles have dripped wax all over the bloody Irish linen white thing you’d been forced to spread on the table.

She’s started to knock up something else, to replace the burnt stuff, and for sure-certain you can feel a good few more laps of kitchen-based domesticity coming up. You resign yourself, and start to scrape the burnt pans, after being told not to “just-stand-there-looking-at-it-if-you-hadn’t-made-all-that-fuss-and-been-more-careful-in-the-first-place-it-wouldn’t-have-burnt”. Your helpful suggestion that maybe if you could “sort-of-just-stir-it-all-together-and-see-what-it-tastes-like, babe”, meets with a disgusted “Don’t be stupid; you can’t do that!”.

“Actually you can”, you think to yourself, but know full well that such thoughts won’t overwhelm her powerful Girl-Logic software systems, and so you strategically keep the thought secreted well away from the Brain-to-Mouth short circuit, that has dropped you right in it so often before.
At long last, after a repeat of the whole performance, you finally sit down to eat. You find yourself thinking “What a bleddy price to pay for a regular shag”, and just in time shut the thought down in blind panic, only too aware of her sensitive telepathic and intuitive skills. The ones have seen right into your thoughts so many times in the past. HOW does she do that?
Then there’s trying to see what you’re doing in the soft, dimpsy candlelight, whilst attempting to look into her eyes romantically, and not spoil it by being a wuss, and wincing at the pain of the damn fork pressing into your burnt fingers. When you see how she is looking back at you, you realise, with the fixed grin that you desperately try to warm up, that lovemaking that night is going to call on every ounce of proficiency you have at your disposal.

Too late, she’s triggered your simple and hair-triggered Primary Man Circuits. The Member for Bathpool is stirring, albeit pretty half heartedly like mortally wounded old soldier making one last effort to rise up and salute the distant call of the Bugle; loyal to a fault, and willing to fling himself into the breech one last time for Honour and Valour. You find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you’d avoided introducing the Ferret again that morning, close thing though it was, after climbing aboard twice last night. Doesn’t she realise the damn Well isn’t bottomless? “Not really” is the obvious answer, by that look of “You’re going to be a Lucky Boy tonight!” in her Make-Sure-He-Notices furtive glances at you.

Then she goes and reaches up and does that thing with her hair. The thing she does without knowing how it leaves you helpless, and at her mercy every single time. With an inward sigh of contented resignation you smile at her, knowing she’s always going to have her way without even trying.

Still, you remembered dreaming of one day meeting a gorgeous nymphomaniac just like her, but sometimes realise it’s resulted in life being much more complicated, and an awfully long way off the simple life you once enjoyed. For instance; Getting up out of the armchair when the adverts start, opening a tin of beans, shoving a spoon into the tin, and back to sit down again before the film kicks in again.

Food.

Done in a jiffy,………..and if you lick the spoon clean, absolutely no washing up.

Simple.

Quick.

No Wucking Forries! 🙂

© Kevin Udy.

Knights on White Chargers, mostly reduced to clumping aimlessly around a kitchen……….

Browsing the blogs, I came across one entry on nurture vs. nature, and how a mother had noted her children exhibiting traditional male/female natures, despite no steering or encouragements from her or her husband. Actually despite some.

I left a comment, which, as it always does with me, ended up in a ramble which is worthy of putting in this blog………….. so I’ve pretty much copied/pasted it below, and rambled a but more here and there, ……….as you do. :o)

So here it is……………

I’m often called sexist at work, which is social services (in Britain), looking after people with learning difficulties in residential care. I work mainly with women, and joke around with them a lot, often playing the seventies sexist male at my own expense.

However, I do hold the view that, generally speaking, men and women are very different, and are naturally drawn to, and are good at, different things in life. If I take over, or offer to take over any heavy, or awkward tasks, I’m being sexist. It seems hard for a lot of women, I have to say mostly young women, to understand how difficult it is for me to stand by and watch a woman risk injury, while I stand by and watch. It’s my male instinct at work, and it used to be called chivalrous, not sexist.

I was influenced by a Father who taught me to always let a female win when push came to shove, never hurt a female, and to help and protect them no matter what. Most of my generation were taught the same principles as they grew up.

I have worked very closely with women for some 36 years now, in the caring field, after doing my general nurse training back in the early seventies at 18. In all that time, I have seen very little to change the views that my generation was brought up with, in the respect that males and females are different. That does not mean unequal.

What I have seen is the damage to our society that this corrosive drive for “equality” has done in trying to force us into roles we were never designed for. I do understand that equality was lacking in the way women were valued, and their freedoms restricted, but feel strongly that in levelling the playing field, we have long since lost our way in recognising and valuing our differences.

‘Different’ has been identified with ‘unequal’. You can be different AND equal at the same time, in as much as an averaging out of different roles, equates to equality in the long run. What was wrong was that women were not regarded as of equal value in society…….. THAT was where equality was needed.

As a man, I have witnessed the feminisation of men in the name of “Equality” in order to force us to absorb the traditional roles of women……… many of which we are inherently not suited to by nature. Natural male roles are considered unfashionable; you only have to look at the lack of masculinity in the five terrestrial television programs in this damn country to see that……… it’s all cooking programs these days, with mainly men (I use the term very loosely, and not because they cook either!) poncing about like a bunch of girls, drizzling this, and arranging that. Isambard Kingdom Brunel would spin in his grave!!!!

Even the appearance of men, and what is considered as characteristically male, has been feminised hugely ………… body hair is considered repulsive nowadays for instance. Speaking as one who can’t walk topless across a beach without being regarded as the missing link, that is a particular blow. It isn’t especially unusual for a young man these days to spend more time on his appearance than a woman, and yes, I have heard it all before about “why not” etc……… I’m talking about the flouncing about with all the bleddy male grooming crap that’s considered necessary to be attractive to women nowadays. It used to be good old Wright’s Coal Tar soap, water, and aftershave. Maybe a bit of deodorant at a push, but she’d have to be real pretty to be worth the risk to reputation. :o)

I’m sure-certain that this forced rush for equality has resulted in males having less of the traditional respects for women. Men are much less likely to protect women nowadays, and have not been brought up to do so because the New Equal Woman is just as capable of defending herself, thanks very much. Sorry, but you’re not. We’re still the physically stronger, and more aggressive, sex and now you have a situation where you fear men, rather than feel protected by us.

Back when I was young, there were all sorts of jokes about how a woman in distress, with a car broken down for instance, would hitch up a skirt to show a leg, and some man would pull up, puff up his chest, and fix the car for her. All just for the price of being made to feel strong and wonderful. In actual fact, that scenario was pretty much a reality, to varying degrees of skirt hitching. All a woman actually had to do was stand by a car with it’s bonnet (hood) up, and hey, presto…….. a knight on a white charger would pull up within minutes (In Britain, anyway). No woman even comes close to risking that nowadays do they? And many men would think twice about stopping too, in case they were accused of some impropriety.

Women don’t feel safe unless they have a mobile phone to call for help, and feel very vulnerable whilst waiting for that help to arrive. Women expect to be attacked, and raped, rather than protected, and that saddens me greatly as a man who would lay his life down to protect a woman.

Sorry……….. I ramble away too much for my own good! I hope you get what I’m getting at here.

In case some are wondering, me having become a nurse and all……….. yup, my job is definitely not suited to an alpha male……… I made a bad choice years ago, and took up nursing for three reasons when I was young and in hospital recovering from a bad motorcycle accident at sixteen.
The reasons?

1) I couldn’t wait to leave home, and nursing was an all-in-one package; work, independence, and accommodation, all in one…… I’m deaf in one ear, so joining the forces was out as an option.

2) It looked a cushy little number, which it did lying there as a patient!

3) An endless supply of chicks, which to a virginal, but seminally incontinent yoof, was some pull, believe me!

God, I loved those 70’s uniforms, and watching them come off……… Ahem, sorry………. Actually, soddit, no I’m bluddy not!!!! :o)

Oh, yes, ……….I also fell head over heels in love with one of the nurses……. Anne Mathews. Went out with her for a good while too after I got out of hospital. Me a very inexperienced (As in ‘none whatsoever’!) sixteen, and her a much wiser nineteen. Man, oh man, was that a sweet time.

Anyway……y’all might notice a complete absence of the vocational drive to ‘care for others’ as one of the motivational reasons for taking up Nursing, eh? Still, I guess two out of three isn’t bad, is it? (I got one wrong……… it certainly wasn’t a ‘cushy number’!!!!)

I went ahead, ignoring advice of couple of people, namely my English tutor at college, and my Uncle Jack, to instead take up a job, or career, which utilised my natural talents. Stubbornly I went ahead with Plan A, and painfully learned the skills naturally more inherent in women the hard way, and became quite a good nurse in the end. Having been on the receiving end as a patient after the bike accidents (I had another bad one at eighteen) had a lot to do with how good a nurse I ended up as.

Having slowly realised I was in the wrong job, I also made the mistake of sticking at something that didn’t naturally suit me, to my mental detriment from work-related stress as things have turned out.

I wish I knew what I know now, when I was young. (sigh)

If we really were all the same, after 36 years at the coalface I’d be as good at this job as a woman,………….. but I’m not. The memory is shot to pieces, partly from the head injuries all those years ago, but mostly from the stress damage, ………..but you d’you know what it’s all just as much about?

I’m doing a woman’s job, and I don’t have a woman’s brain.

It’s that simple.

I GOT THIS REPLY ON THE BLOG I LEFT THE COMMENT ON……..AND REPLIED AGAIN……….

K, thank you for sharing your experiences. Made for fascinating reading. I’m glad you said that different is not unequal and that there was/is inequality in the way women’s work is valued. If the societal movement in the last couple of decades has gone on to show that women’s work whether at home or outside is invaluable to their families and to society in general, then it has been worth it, in my opinion. There’s no better way to understand a person than being in their shoes. In my own life I do recognize that I’m good at certain things while my husband is good at others – they are purely on a personal level, not gender based. As long as we are able to recognize what a person is good at and encourage that person along those lines, particularly children, then that’s ideal. Doesn’t matter if it falls along the lines of traditional gender roles.

No, it doesn’t matter one zit’s squirt if the suitability of roles is matched to gender. However, it DOES matter if you’re criticised for not being good at certain roles when you’re only crime is that you’re simply typical of your gender.

THAT’S the nub of it, and where the whole drive for equality has gone horribly wrong. Being in the ‘wrong job’ all my life, I’ve been hammered for that by the women I’ve worked with for 36 years, so feel it acutely. Ok, I fully accept that it’s my fault for being a square peg in a round hole, but the women who have bullied me mercilessly, and some have believe me, would have got a whole lot more from me with a little more insight as to what makes a man tick. I’d say that’s true of most marriages too……….. a failure to realise those differences, and for both parties to make the allowances based on that understanding. Men are prolly actually worse than women at that. In saying that, as regards work, I’ve worked with a lot of women who have been very understanding, and have been supportive in that they’ve done, or helped me with, the tasks I’m weak at, and I’ve reciprocated by doing that which they’re not so hot on. When you do that it all works soooooo much better.

(I just KNOW I’m heading for trouble in talking about this!!! I’m particularly skilled at digging myself a hole, and resolutely continuing to dig as the sky disappears above me)

Ok, shovel in hand………. As always, let’s dig just a little bit deeper, eh?

Cooking comes to mind. We cook a lot of the meals for the residents we care for, and if you ever want to see a Man In Distress, stick me in a kitchen to cook a meal.

Then make it nine meals.

Then make most of them different in several ways.

Then make me do it quickly.

THEN expect it all ready at the same appointed time, and at the same approximate temperature.

Then watch it go bang, crash, wallop, with much Bugger, Shit, Damn! :o)

I’ve been watching a lot of this Cooking Thing at work, was married for ten years, and have been in three long term relationships since, and so have seen the gist of it many many times.

But.

I.

Just.

Can’t.

Do.

It!!!!!!!

It’s the Multitasking Thing you girls do soooooo well.

It’s like the Domestic Duties Thing…….. we just don’t have the Nesting Instinct to be fascinated by it all………. And yes, most of you girls are fascinated by it all. I have several Wild Free and Single male friends, and not ONE chooses to fuss over the nest. Not ONE. And all the married male friends do it under duress.

Not one female friend is good at fixing things, particularly their cars……… one or two do DIY at home, but none are really very good at it. (………..Actually, one is VERY good at it!!!!) A couple are brilliant at painting and decorating though.

Men were originally designed to kill, defend, protect. We focus on one thing at a time very well. we are inherently aggressive when provoked. We have highly developed spacial senses.

The trouble is most of that is redundant these days.

It’s why we are being outdone by women who have all the other natural skills that are more necessary in this modern world, but if y’all aren’t careful, you’ll wind up being men with vagina’s, and then it really will be a big mess.

Don’t say you weren’t warned! :o)

I’m lost track of what I’m trying to say here, but I guess it’s a personal resentment at us men being generally slaughtered in society for being masculine. I see the soul of this once great industrial nation frittered away to nothing by the weenies that rule us, and am driven nuts by the pastel-shaded, political correct nature of out politicians, and everything in the media, especially television.

There are plenty of exceptions to the rule, I know, and believe me, you won’t find anyone cheering louder at a woman beating a man at his own game. I won’t get started on what i think of a lot of men…….. but plenty get right up my nose, and I readily acknowledge that the male ego and aggression are the root cause of most of the world’s ills.

I do think young women are at risk of losing it all by the attempts these days to emulate men’s aggression, and this is no more apparent than in the way a lot of girls and women get drunk these days. I mean…….. openly weeing in the street, ………..and getting into some pretty nasty street brawls???? Ask any bouncer about the subject, especially in out cities.

I always though our example was to be abhorred, not emulated. The roles are changing, and it’s pretty worrying. We fast are losing our identities, and our respect for one another.

The last word……… just in case I come across a s a bitter and twisted woman-hater. It couldn’t be further from the truth. I adore women, and not for the obvious reasons either. I’m very lucky in that I’ve been loved and adored by some lovely women, and don’t know what a bitch is……. Well, actually I do, but have always avoided them like the plague. Can’t always avoid them at work though………..

Even after some thirty-six years of working with, and under the rule of, women, I am still blown away by how capable y’all are. It happens to me all the time at work. Both your brain hemispheres are joined by a far bigger bundle of nerve fibres than men have, for a start……….. I’m not sure, but it could be 70% bigger. It means you can multitask far better. My boss was talking to me, AND counting the money in loose change at he same time the other day. I couldn’t do that for love nor money!

So, (y’all out there)………. next time you’re going to discipline the poor blighter (Husband/ partner/ boyfriend/ father/ uncle/ friend/ whoever) for not noticing the kids poking the cat in the eye when he’s trying to heat the beans, cut the chap some slack.

He prolly really IS doing his best. :o)

K. :o)