More Mom Stuff

My mom knew that the Geneva Conventions existed but those were for more civilized homes. This was more like it:

Geneva Convention? I freakin’ wish. Whenever young Tmj crossed the frontier, Mom skipped diplomacy, proportionate force, the spirit of the Hague Conventions, the UCMJ articles pertaining to Law Of Land Warfare and go straight to the nuclear option.

The single warhead, planet cracking Dad Tmj. And if Mom had been moved enough at the moment of offense to have to raise her hand in the form of a spank, it was even worse.

Well, the nuclear option was really the only option Chez Mom of Melissa. I only have a few tics, otherwise I turned out ok. Besides disciplinary warfare, my mother excelled at keeping house. Perfectly. She was to women's work what Bob Villa is to home improvement.

Some men value women's work, too, as it's the only way to be manly left. I found this post and thought about my Butch Up post. Men butch up a myriad of ways these days and some do it by doing "Women's Work":

But you know what’s great? Household cleaning. Ironing, especially. I wish I were making this up.

Can’t iron with a two-year-old anywhere near — they’ll grab a good hold of that power cord and give it a solid jerk. And ironing shirts requires too much attention to carry on an adult conversation. Not the way I do it anyway.

I’m not kidding about that attention thing. When I iron, I’m ironing. I used to be so bad that I’d crease and iron the back box pleat, all the way down to the shirttail. At some point around 30, I decided maybe that was taking things a little too far, at least on sport shirts. Dress shirts? Next time you see me in a suit, wait’ll I take off the jacket and check for yourself. Until then, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.

But give me the bathroom to myself, one of the many For Steve Only playlists on the iPod nestled in its Bose dock speakers, and half a dozen shirts to iron… and for the next hour, I could be 23 for all I care. It’s the same music, the same alone time, and the same (completely anal retentive, perfectionist asshole) activity as I enjoyed those 15 [cough, 16, cough . -ed.] years ago. Ironing is even better than vacuuming, which makes too much noise for a good iPod jam session. (If you prefer a loud stereo to wearing headphones, that is.) Though being all domestic now, I do get to chase the dog around with the damn noisy thing, which is a bit of a plus.

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Guys, there’s nothing wrong with doing so-called women’s work. It’s one of your last chances to be a man.

Amen, baby. You hit it! And you're right. You'll get all the time alone you need. Don't want to dirty your fingernails in the shop? Sick of racking leaves? Real men iron. Ironing is butch. That hot thing scares me.