Sturm und Mom

The Storm & Stress (& Joy) of Motherhood

Dear Chauvinist Pigs: Please Come Back and Help Me

Today, I had three little kids in the SUV, a low tire pressure warning on the dashboard, and the complete inability to read the PSI recommendation written on the sidewall of my tire.  Oh, I know it was there somewhere.  It’s just with pouring rain and all the road dust it was a little obscured.  I was also wearing a fashionable spring jacket that looked nice, but came with a completely impractical hood that made me look that that Darth Sidious guy from Star Wars when he was in evil disguise.  Plus, the air pump at the gas station was positioned right beside the freeway that the drive-through to the coffee shop located inside the gas station store.  (As in aside, I will never be comfortable buying “fresh” food from a place that specializes in motor oil, propylene glycol, and other extremely volatile fluids.)  So, eveytime I had to walk around the truck with my little metal stick to check the pressure, I took my life into my hands as some caffeine deprived driver finally noticed me at the last possible moment.  Which brings me to the big question of my morning:

Why couldn’t one of those drivers be some old-fashioned chauvinist pig who gets his ego boost out of helping females in distress?

Hey, I won’t complain — and I don’t.  When the mover jumped off the back of the truck to take a box headed to my trunk out of my arms and into his, I said “Thanks.”  When some youngster Rig Pig wanted to pull me out of a snow bank with his 3/4 ton truck, I said, “Tell me when to hit the gas.”  You got jumper cables?  Hook ’em up.  Wanna push my flats onto the cart at Ikea?  Knock yourself out.  When the older gentleman asked if he could carry my vacuum cleaner down the escalator at The Bay, I couldn’t offload it fast enough.  Hell, I married a guy who won’t let me operate his lawn mower!

You know, when I was in my teens, I would have been horrified.  I (mistakenly) thought that this meant that I was proving that women were the weaker sex.  It was as if with every door held open, we somehow morally surrendered power to men.  What we needed were sensitive men who just let us muddle through everything like equals.

Except the last thing I needed this wet, cold, frustrating morning was Phil Donahue telling me he knows how June Cleaver stereotypes must make me feel.   I needed some knucklehead who feels he knows everything about tires, and it’s his duty to come and save me.

‘Cuz ladies, after bearing down on six kids, I don’t feel I need to prove anything anymore.  But I could sure borrow some of that up body strength every so often.

Please come back chauvinist pigs.  We won’t yell anymore, and I really need some help with my car.

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4 thoughts on “Dear Chauvinist Pigs: Please Come Back and Help Me

  1. Kana Tyler on said:

    Amen, Sister! I remember thinking precisely the same thing when I was pushing my own stalled car along the side of the road in a rainstorm–six months pregnant–while uncaring traffic streamed by! 😉

  2. Darlene on said:

    wow! the very comment that I was GOING to leave is written above! …well…all except the 6 month pregnant thing… So, what I was going to say is Amen to that! Oh how I remember the “I am woman, hear me roar…” balderdash that I bought into in the 70s & 80s! It wasn’t until I found myself commuting home with my hubby each evening (we worked in the same building) & RACING into the house to get supper going as fast as possible while he RACED to the couch that I began to think…wait a minute!? How is this a good thing? The ‘sisterhood’ has done us sisters ‘a nasty’…& we bought it cuz we didn’t understand the ‘you can have it all’ thing didn’t mean ‘you gotta have it all RIGHT NOW’. That’s why I’m loving your posts & others like you – you’re wising up & getting the ‘sisterhood’ back on track! You go girl!!

  3. Worrywart on said:

    1) I’m really impressed you a) had a metal stick and b) knew what to do with it.

    2) My husband has been cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday for almost 30 years and I would not trade that kind of muscle in for anything.

    3) Next time just put a little piece of black tape over the light.

  4. I am so glad Bear is one of those who would rather me get my nails done to doing all of those man-child chores. Although he is fun trying to help me build things (I am the carpenter…he is the mechanic.), inevitably I ask him please, please, just hand me that.

    Red.

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