The woes of the under appreciated husband never end. The ruling society of women has, for generations, conspired against their men and withholding well deserved praise is just a part of it.
The one sock conspiracy which has been falsely attributed to laundry elves could stand more examination. It is my experience that only the socks of me or my son are on the hit list. My wife and daughter are sympathetic to our dismay when only one part from a favorite pair of socks is found, but I am beginning to suspect that their sad frowns and shaking of heads are more ruse than not.
Another myth is the last squeeze of toothpaste rule. There is always a little more in the tube my wife will claim as I desperately pinch and twist the obviously empty tube, my brush pressed against the aperture ready to absorb one more bit of paste. While sweat was beading off my cramping and shaking hands I spied in the mirror my daughter pull a full tube out of the drawer and slap a generous helping of cavity fighter on her brush. She tossed the tube in back in the drawer, gave me a wave and bounced back into her bathroom and I realized that once again I had been duped.
But the worst of this vast Wife Wing Conspiracy is the ho-hum thanks for truly heroic action. I noticed the other day that there was a large cooking pot on top of the clothes washer. In the pot was a large rock filling the pot and providing a considerable amount of weight. Being an intellectually minded man, I began to analyze the purpose for this addition to the laundry room. I came up with a few possible answers but then remembered “This is the laundry room,” which in man speak translates to “Strange new world with customs not our own.” So I asked my lady “Yo! What’s up with the rock in the pot?” I was not prepared for the amazing answer I got.
Here is “Laundry 101” for men. In order for a washing machine to keep running the lid needs to be closed. This is so the little pin under the lid will force the “Lid Closed” sensor down, thereby telling the machine that all is well. It turns out that a few months ago our washer started acting up and the act of closing the lid was no longer enough to force the sensor down. Direct pressure to the lid was required to move the machine from “Fill” to “Wash” mode. I am still unclear about what the different modes mean for the machine, but I suspect they are all very important to the process. So for a while my wife would have to listen to the machine as it progressed to the “Wash” stage, rush in and slam her hand on the lid. If she missed the timing on this then all of the water would drain without ever entering the “Wash” stage and the process would have to be repeated.
Then things got worse. As time went on increasing amounts of force was required to nudge the machine along. At some point only continued downward pressure would insure a complete wash cycle. At first her answer to this was the soap box. It was pretty heavy and was conveniently located in the area. Problem solved, or at least until she found out that with each new cycle the box of soap got a little lighter. When the box became too light to do the job she would toss the bottle of bleach on top along with the soap. This was only partially successful because the vibration of the machine caused the bleach to slip off the machine. Enter the Rock in a Pot. Placed strategically over the correct portion of the lid, the pot was a constant source of weight sufficient to solve all of my wife’s issues with the machine.
I finished my secound cup of coffee as my wife completed the history of the Rock in a Pot solution. My face must have revealed some of the inner fear I had about my wife’s problem solving ability because the conversation turned defensive in a hurry. I made a quick retreat from the laundry room and sought some therapy from a manly application of Sunday football. When my center of balance returned, and she had left for church, I crept back into the strange room armed with a screw driver and duck tape.
I examined the situation for a few minutes and discovered a loose retaining pin under the lip of the machine. I snaped it back into position, no tools needed, not even the tape, and gave the machine a test. Calling my daughter in to help, we loaded the machine. I found out that not all colors of clothes go in at the same time, tossed in some soap and we were off. We closed the lid and the little machine worked like a champ with no pounding, slapping or kitchen supplies needed.
My wife returned later that day and I said “I fixed your machine! We even washed some clothes!” Her reply was “Oh? Thanks.” This was not at all what I was expecting. The woman suffered for months and I rescued her from the dreaded washing machine lid, and all she says is “Oh? Thanks.”? Once again the WWC had reared it’s ugly head and slapped down a heroic act of husband-hood. The next time I see something like this I should just let her suffer instead of using my incredible powers to assist. But something about her smile or laugh just keeps drawing me in for more.
I noticed a can of corn wrapped in bubble wrap behind the patio door. I wonder what that is all about.