Why I Love my Dog

When Tom and I got married in 2002, he asked me if I would like to get a dog. My answer was, "I don't think I'm a dog person," and then we went straight out and got a dog. I was wrong about not being a dog person. Even though I know the time is coming and sooner than I would like, I can't imagine life without Maggie Mae.

Over the last thirteen years, I've tried to list all of the reasons why I love my dog so much, but the list is so long, I lose track somewhere in the middle. Here are just a few reasons. I'm sure I'll think of more later.

Maggie is always happy. She loves me unconditionally and she is thrilled to see me when I return home...even if I've only been gone five minutes.

"You're back! You're back! I'm so happy you're back! 

I've missed you so much."

She listens attentively to everything I say.

'Yes...yes...go on. I'm listening."

"Still listening...but are you ever going to

mention 'eat' or 'ball' or 'outside' or
'squirrel'?" I like those words."

Maggie Mae is the smartest dog I have ever known. She understands complete sentences like, "Do you want something to eat?"

and "Wanna play with your ball?"

and "Wanna go outside? Maybe there's squirrels out there."

Maggie is so smart that she can even read words. 

...and tell time.

She's a devoted companion and wants to go with me everywhere I go.

She always wants to be with me; she follows me from room to room.

She just loves being with me.

She protects me from perceived danger.

She comforts me when I'm sick.

I love her cute little butt and her soft belly.

Just in case this pix goes viral on the Internet

I have blurred out Maggie Mae's face.

Love, love, love that belly.

And I love that she never asks for money or keys to the car.

Nope! This would never happen

if you owned a dog. 

If you don't have a dog, you don't know what unconditional love is...from a dog's perspective.

Rattle Those Pots and Pans

Tom's son, Michael, is coming to visit this weekend so I guess it's time to clean house. The last time we had company was June--rather soon to get the sweeper and dust pan out again, but we must present an image of clean and neat, right? Oh, did I say we? I meant to say I, as the woman of the house, must present an image of clean and neat because that is my job; that is what is expected of me. But, before you go thinking it's my husband--the man of the house--with the expectations, it's not him.

Early in life I was given a set of requirements that, as a female, I must follow. My mother, all four of my aunts, my grandmother, the ladies at the church, the next-door neighbor-ladies, my teachers, and the women on our little 12" black and white television ALL followed the rules of our gender. Who was I to question such a powerful group of rule-followers?  To not live up to their high expectations and standards of behavior was to risk criticism, admonishment, judgment, and a failing grade, and the consequence of failure could, for some women (me, for example), produce shame and guilt.

Every single one of those rule-followers that I mentioned above is gone now, yet they are still judging me, and as hard as I try to please them--okay, that's a lie; I'm not trying very hard--I am still getting an F in House Keeping.  They think I should spend less time working in my shop, digging in my garden, installing split-rail fencing, foraging trails through the woods, building cottages and outhouses, and writing blogs. "That's not women's work," they all say in unison. "You've got company coming. Dust that coffee table! Mop that floor! Clean those windows! Get in the kitchen and rattle those pots and pans!" 

I know I should do as they say; it's my gender's duty. But...but...but...

A Member of My Gender

When I asked Tom if he felt the same emotion as I did (shame) when he saw filthy grime and grunge behind the dryer or bird do-do on the deck, he said, "Of course not. Why would I feel shame?" I had an Oprah moment. You know, that moment when you rise above all mere mortals on earth to a place of clarity, a place where you have been given exclusive rights to the truth about certain things. In this case, my Oprah moment was when I realized that women were more likely than men to feel shame and guilt when domestic duties are being neglected. Ah Ha!

From my earliest memories, I remember being told that girls should be sugar and spice and everything nice and clean and neat and sweet and kind and pretty too and lady-like and non-confrontational and organized and thrifty and a good cook and housekeeper and ironer and a good wife and a good mother. Let's just say there were a few expectations that came from me being born with a vagina.

Even though I started out behaving more like a boy, my vagina placed me solidly into the female gender category. (I wasn't aware that I had options back then.)  The voices behind the expectations for me were pervasive and loud and clear. And I didn't object. In fact, I was eager to find my prince and get on with life as a good wife, mother, cook and keeper of the house. But then something went wrong in the grand scheme of things.

I can't say exactly what went wrong--well, I could but I'm not going to. Let's just say there were too many vaginas in my marriage, and I found myself alone with child and working and going to school and maintaining a home. The voices behind the expectations for me did not quiet down; they only grew louder and louder and they were now coming from inside my head, judging me. "How could you let this house get so dusty?" the voices would say. "Shame! Shame on you!"

Meanwhile, back in male genderville, I would predict that there aren't many men out there who feel shame and guilt when passing a dust-covered coffee table. Why?

V.A.G.I.N.A...they don't have one.

Bad-Talking

A while back, when Tom and I pulled the washer away from the wall so we could check the water hoses, I was horrified at what I saw. The hoses were fine but the floor was covered with nasty, filthy grime and grunge. Tom was happy to see there were no repairs needed but I was horrified and bad-talking to myself. "Oh, my goodness, Carol Louise. You are disgusting! You are a terrible housekeeper. Shame! Shame on you! That's not all I said to myself as I was brutally beating me up, but I can't use those words here because my granddaughter is going to read this some day.

One day last week, I stepped out onto our deck--a deck we (I) never, ever use--and was appalled. Dust, cobwebs, bird do-do and dirt everywhere. It wasn't long before the bad-talking kicked in. "Are you serious? You let this deck get this bad? What is wrong with you? You are a terrible housekeeper. Shame! Shame on you!" 

While I was cleaning the deck and berating myself for being such a lousy housekeeper, the thought occurred to me...does Tom feel shame when he sees grime behind the dryer or bird do-do on the deck? So I asked him. "Do you feel shame when you see grime behind the dryer or bird do-do on the deck?" He looked at me as if I had said, "Are you an alien from the planet 'Kolinoscopeepee'?" My question did not make any sense to him. "Well, of course not," he said. "Why would I feel shame?" Good question. Why would he feel shame? I know the answer and I'm going to tell you it right now.

V.A.G.I.N.A...he doesn't have one.

The Total Woman

A few months before our wedding, my former-football-star fiancé gave me the book The Total Women, a guidebook on how to be a good little subservient wife, gold-star housekeeper, and let's not forget the always-available sex kitten.  His expectations for me were clear, but could I live up to the high standards he had for his future wife and the mother of his children?  If I worked hard and excelled in my role, the book implied, my husband would adore me, love me forever, and never do the nasty-nasty with that big-breasted bimbo at the office.

My soon-to-be ex-fiancé was not alone with his expectations about what roles women should play in this 1970's world. For eons women had few options in life; then doors started opening. Just a few at first, then along came a war and that deafening creaking sound you heard in the distance was a million doors opening all at once. On the other side of those doors were much-needed money, a taste of independence, and unlimited choices.

My mother and three of her twenty-something sisters found themselves caught in the fast-moving current of change. When the war ended in 1945, three of the McCloud sisters were already married, and because their lifestyles now required it, they continued to work outside of the home...as well as inside. But it was confusing. With them working all day, who was going to clean house, iron, do laundry, cook and...oh my gosh...what about the children? Not a problem. They would do it, because everyone knows the total woman can juggle it all and still do the meow-meow with her husband whenever he's in the mood for a little pussy cat.

Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" to read more.

Exercise in Futility

I hate doing housework. Well, I don't hate it. I just despise it immensely. I'd rather do anything, anything at all other than clean house...except iron. I don't want to iron or cook. Please don't make me cook. And windows. I don't do windows. Okay, I do do windows, but you'd never know it because of the dang streaks I leave behind.

Dusting is one big waste of time and effort. I tried to explain my opposition to this useless exercise in futility to Tom the other day as he was leaving the house to go fishing, but he looked at me like a deer high on Bud Light. Dusting should be done only once every six months or if company is coming. Dust accumulates 1/100th's of a millimeter every day. Dust today and tomorrow it's back. It's always there. ALWAYS! So, like I tried to explain to Tom, who got lost in the math--he's not good with fractions--the difference in 1/100th's of a millimeter in accumulation from day to day is not discernible to the naked eye, so why not wait until it changes the color of the furniture or company is coming?

Women's Work

I was eight days away from my thirtieth birthday in 1975 and two days away from my wedding when I ran. I didn't know it then, but now all these many years later and with hindsight by my side, I realize I was running away from a man who was looking exclusively for a woman who would go willingly into that gender-role place that requires 24/7 housecleaning, laundry, ironing, cooking, and tending to children. Well, it does make sense...sort of. I was born with a vagina which made me a woman and women are expected to do what? That's right. Women's work.  But, he was wrong about this vagina...sort of.

 

Forty years later, August 24, 2015--it's my birthday--and I have won the Best-Mate Lotto. My husband is the most wonderful man I have ever known, and he requires nothing from me but my undying love and devotion. That love and devotion part of our marriage is easy, but it's that dang gender-based role thing that requires me to do stuff I don't want to do. But I do it anyway...just not willingly.

The following cartoon is missing the captions.  How would you fill them in? I showed Tom this post and he said his caption would be: "Once you're done cleaning the windows, Sweetheart, let's make mad-passionate love," or something like that. Oh, I don't remember now. It was early this morning and I've slept since then.