Frank Speaking

The author, his business in ruins finds himself stranded on the homefront. What

starts out as a seemingly innocent effort to chip in with the chores takes an

unexpected and tumultuous turn into the swirling reality of a woman's world. It

is a unique confession; words that you never thought you would hear from the

mouth of a man. A book in progress....

©SweepingLeaves 2010

No items may be reproduced without written permission from the author.

If you would like more then please >>> email me

frankspeaking@sweepingleaves.com

Chapter 1: A Man's Voyage through a Woman's Mind

While I couldn’t have known it at the time I was about to take on the task that would complete my

course in domestic servitude; and I hasten to add that terms such as household management or

domestic bliss are either woefully inadequate or utterly misleading. Management is only a small part

of the puzzle and bliss is rarely, if ever, part of the equation; with the possible exception of those

precious few seconds that arrive between exhaustion and slumber; a brief respite that is notably

wiped out and erased from one’s memory with the dawning of every new domestic day.

In the spirit of transparency I will confirm now, that the challenge that stretched out before me was

quite daunting. My wife and partner, Adele, more partner now than ever before, for reasons

explained herein, was heading off on a journey that had been planned well in advance. In the interim

we had accepted a booking for seven American guests that happened to fall within the same time

frame. I should qualify this by pointing out that we do not run a bed and breakfast. We do however

take on summer guests, where possible, when demand exceeds local capacity or as part of the

foreign student language programme. This sort of ad hoc hotel scheme is a recent evolution and a

by-product of the economic downturn.

Adele volunteered several times along the way to cancel her trip. She questioned, outright, if I was

biting off more than I could chew. She repeatedly responded to my self confidence with suspicion

and, to be fair to her motives, she was, I believe, endeavouring to be fair to me. My significant other

had only recently begun to express her appreciation of my expanding domestic contribution and

there was, I’m sure she felt, reasonably good cause to wonder if my confidence was overstretching

my capabilities.

With less than twenty four hours to go before Adele’s departure her obsessive compulsive overdrive

was fully engaged. Women should not take umbrage with what, I believe, is an eminently accurate

description. It just seems irrefutable that women are genetically engineered to seek order, where us

men, on average, perceive order as an option relative to circumstances. We have no problem with

chaos as long as it is functional. However, having subscribed to her standards, I was obliged to take

my orders obediently and to pay close attention to the particulars as she instructed.

Initially it wasn’t that difficult. As originally stated, and outlined in further detail below, I was well on

my way to becoming an accomplished domestic. While I didn’t relate, nor did I feel that I would ever

relate to the female imperative, I had come to recognise the nuances that separate and elevate a

‘woman clean’ from a ‘man clean’. There are very few women who would require any further

clarification on the point, but, on the off chance that there are any male readers, and I suspect that

there will ultimately be more than a few women who will feel naturally inclined to shove this article

under the noses, if not completely down the throats, of their respective partners, suffice to say that

a ‘man clean’ is more or less defined by ones ability to get to the sofa, the TV or the food without

falling over anything along the way. The woman, aspires to a standard that achieves a degree of

excellence upon this plane. That which wasn’t wired in phylogenetically has been programmed in

ontogenetically either directly by her mother or indirectly by the media and society at large.

In the aforementioned context it is worth noting that, if only for anthropological reasons, men are

also little more than a product of their programming. The example was established by our fathers

and acquiesced to by our mothers, who, aside from their normal predisposition, tend to dote on

their sons remorselessly with little regard for their part in the misogynistic cyclical chain and no

apparent compassion for their future daughters-in-law. It does call into question the feminist

integrity of many,

if not most, mothers that they would willingly visit the inequities of their own existence upon the

shoulders of future generations. One could logically deduce that the very first mother might have

been the most culpable party for this sort of entropy. However, to be fair, she was probably being

dragged around by her hair at the hands of some troglodyte brute who went through life seriously

pissed off that neither football nor television had yet been invented.

There she stood, my wife, with a ‘tooth brush’ in her hand, instructing me to scrub away the rust

that had accumulated at the base of the bathroom sink faucet. It was a step beyond where I had

been before, but, at that point, I had grown well accustomed to the constant raising of the bar. I

took the toothbrush without any hint of resistance and went about the task. As I stood there

scrubbing away the rust she suggested that, as I had the toothbrush anyway, I should also clean

away the grime at the base of the sink stand……………. And the crud at the foot of the toilet

bowl………and the dirt around the base of the bath…………..and the joint between the wall and the

tile around the full perimeter of the entire bathroom………and any of the other tile joints with built

up mildew……………..

There was a brief moment, standing there with my mouth agape, when I considered asking her if

she, herself, had ever cleaned the entire bathroom with a toothbrush. What she was asking me to do

carried a stench of invention. I found it hard to believe that even in her most anal- retentive

extremes she would take obsessiveness to the degree that she was asking of me. However I had

already declared, within, that I was prepared to go as far out as she willed me to go. I would not back

down to any challenge. If I had, it would have conceded the moral high ground to her forever. For

days she had been calling into question my fitness for carrying the ball entirely on my own. Perhaps

there was a bit of husband-child psychology in her method, probably so, but at that point I would

have found a way of giving birth rather than surrendering to her Venusian superiority. I resolved to

cloak myself in Zen consciousness and to go about the job like an aspiring monk on his first day in

the Ashram.

It took me the better part of two hours to work my way around the room. There was not only

considerable elbow grease to be invested, in terms of the digging and scrubbing that had to be done

with the toothbrush, but the resulting mucky residue had to be wiped away and sopped up with a

sponge. The excavation at the base of the toilet bowl was particularly vile.

Taking on the bathroom had come in the latter stage of my training. Adele had tried to break me

down on this front on numerous occasions but I had protested that men just don’t do porcelain. Of

course she had challenged my refusal by insisting, along predictable feminist lines, that no job that

she had done on numerous occasions should be considered beneath me. For a time I had come up

with what I thought to be a fairly clever rebuttal.

I had said, “when you’re prepared to scoop the dog poop, mow the lawn, wash out the trash bins,

clean the shed or do any of the other thankless jobs at the bottom rung of the male domain …………

then I’ll clean the porcelain” I do recognise now, in retrospect, how utterly out of line I was for

choosing the word ‘thankless’ in the presence of a woman. In that regard I have no choice but to fall

back on the Darwinian defence. Evolution is a very slow process.

For a time, the ploy seemed to work and I managed to keep the bathroom duty at bay. But then, by

either circumstance or design, she grasped the gilded nettle with which I had shielded myself. She

exploited my position when I had been rendered weak and defenceless. I was down with the ‘man

flu’! When I heard the mower sputter and whirr into action I hadn’t the strength to lobby a protest,

much less intervene in what I perceived as a blatant act of subversion. Of course, the hum of the

mower also betrayed the fact that she must have scooped the dog poop. It was logical that one so

‘A-type’ as herself would not have even considered ploughing over the canine excrement with a

rotating reckless abandon. As much as she might have detested the job the threat of soiling the souls

of her designer wellies or, God forbid, the withering notion of tracking the turd into the house,

surely had to drive her to take on a task that, heretofore, would have been considered well, well

beyond the pale. She proclaimed, after the fact, that she did the jobs for no other reasons than “they

had to be done” However, through the full vision of hindsight, there is no doubt in my mind that

these seemingly innocent activities were an opening salvo in a broader battle and a well

orchestrated campaign. As I lay there in my flu bed, wallowing in sweaty self-pity, I had no choice

but to acknowledge that my return to good health would be greeted with yet another expansion in

my domestic duty. With one decisive move she had put the toilet on the table. From then on nothing

could be considered out of bounds. The gloves were well and truly off.

With all that said, I never could have imagined, in my most feverish moments, just how steep the

slope would ultimately become. Beyond the scrubbing of several meters of grimy floor joints with a

diminutive brush otherwise designed for nothing more substantial then dental care, I had to, in the

flow of the process, clean and polish all of the surfaces above ground level. I scrubbed the tub,

scoured the toilet, shined the hardware, windexed the mirror and window, wiped down the wall tiles

and buffed up the towel rack. Having done the full round of the room and feeling confident that I

had achieved, if not surpassed, the standard, I found myself back at the sink where I had started with

my now well worn toothbrush, finishing off the last little bit of tile joint at the base of the wall.

What happened next can best be described in astronomical terms. It was like falling into a black

hole. I actually witnessed the slowing of time. While it wasn’t sudden it was certainly shocking.

Initially it was a glance, but then the scene unfolded into the full horror of the filth on the wall in

front of me. The entire under surface, behind and beneath the sink, was covered in grime. I just

couldn’t believe that I hadn’t seen it before. As I moved my head forward for closer examination,

another dimension opened out within the periphery of my vision. The hollow cavity at the back of

the sink stand was utterly stuffed with caked-on cobwebs and a deep film comprised of dirt and

dust. This was even more alarming than the original discovery below the sink because I hadn’t any

prior knowledge that this hidden vault existed. I had just presumed, I felt reasonably enough, that

the sink stand was in fact solid. While my mind didn’t wander that far in the moment, it would beg

the obvious question in time. What other hidden chambers of dark disgust lay hidden around this

house? I was beginning to feel very woozy and unsure of my footing. It was like reality had stopped

and I had somehow stumbled into a parallel universe. How could a room that had just been polished

to near perfection, only moments before, now be sucked down into a vortex of vileness? And then,

barely balanced on my hands and knee, as if I somehow needed finishing off, my head cocked

slightly to the left for no explicable reason, as though seduced by the sirens call, and the surface of

the radiator revealed itself in full relief. At a distance the enamelled plate was a creamy white but at

closer contact it was covered with a black sticky gunk. I was surrounded! It didn’t matter where I cast

my vision, forward or back, left or right, up or down, there was just dirt, dirt, dirt everywhere! I was

swirling in a state of plummeting vertigo. My instincts informed me that I needed to get out, back or

to some place beyond, before I passed the point of no return. I whipped my head upward reactively

and smacked my skull hard on the underside of the sink bowl. The endorphin rush poured over me in

an instant and allowed my body to readily transcend the short term pain but the very same

neurotransmitters collided with the adrenalin that was coursing through my veins and the panic was

complete. I am not sure how I got to my feet. I wasn’t steady but I managed to stumble and fall back

into the hall where the air seemed to be fresher and the threat began to recede. For a brief moment

I stood there almost motionless, braced by the wall, before my knees surrendered to the demand of

gravity and my body slid downward into a standing foetal position.

Having regained my equilibrium I could see the bathroom as it truly was in the world as it should be.

The dirty, dark corner was still there in all its inglorious grime but it represented little more than a

stain on an otherwise glistening surface. It was in that instance that I realised the nature and the

origin of my metamorphosis. I had no choice but to confront the architect of my misfortune.

For the briefest time I leaned against the kitchen door, standing stealthily, observing Adele as she

burned with efficiency through a formidable pile of ironing. There are precious few males who

understand the athleticism and the endurance required to level a mountain of pressing. I have taken

on the challenge on a few occasions and the job never fails to humble me to the point of a mumbling

mad man. We think that because we have, from time to time, ironed a shirt or pressed a pair of

trousers, there is really nothing in it. But a dash and swipe doesn’t even add up to a sprint. Making a

discernible dent in a large stack of laundry requires a colossal lot of focus and fortitude. And

ultimately the reward for her labour is a complete lack of appreciation for what the inhabitants

perceive as an act of prestidigitation; not to mention that the load self -replicates within a matter of

hours. It’s a marathon that never come to an end, There are some women, particularly those with

large families, who have gone through decades without ever seeing the bottom of the pile.

Eventually she sensed my presence at the door in that same way that she does whenever I

endeavour to tip-toe into the bedroom after a late night with the lads. Women suffer from extreme

sensory perception. Their radar never shuts down. I believe that it has something to do with babies.

It is a wonder that they ever sleep at all.

She lifted her head, not so much with surprise, but alert to my demonic demeanour. She looked at

me quizzically. I blurted out my thoughts, as I am all too often inclined to do, with the tense tone of

a barrister, deep within the throws of a cross examination.

“You knew,” I asked point blank, “didn’t you?”

With one eye arched ever so slightly and a face masked in non-disclosure, she responded predictably

“knew what?”

“You knew when you handed me the toothbrush! You knew where it would lead me? You had to

know!”

“I have no idea what you’re raving about,” she stated obtusely, discounting my directness with

supercilious disregard.

“Oh sure you don’t” I said with a mocking emphasis, allowing the accusation to linger in the air.

“What are you on about?”

“What am I on about? I’ll tell you what I’m on about! I just had one of the most frightening

experiences of my life. I was going about the job as ‘you’ instructed, and the next thing I know I’m

tumbling head over heels into the well of a woman’s mind. It was awful! I’m actually traumatized. I

might never be able to enter a bathroom again”

She laughed condescendingly - almost wickedly!

“Ah ha”, I confirmed, “see - there, you did know. I knew you knew. It was part of your plan all along,

wasn’t it? You couldn’t just be satisfied that I was doing my bit. You had to drag me into your

nightmare”

“Oh stop being so hysterical and don’t be so naïve. Where did you think this was all going to go?

You’re the one who’s always quoting Castaneda. You know what can happen when you go too close

to the ruins. What did you think you were going to find? It was only a matter of time. You’re either

all the way in or your out. There is no half way house. It was you who said you could do it. Now the

question is can you live with it?”

“What do you mean, can I live with it? I never said I was signing up to womanhood. This wasn’t

meant to be an exercise in transgenderization. I was trying to be a decent contributing partner. Ok,

fair enough, I have now seen it from the inside out. There is clearly a whole other level, several other

levels, but I want no part of that. It’s…….It’s…….It’s……. a bridge too far!”

She chuckled, barley audibly to herself, with the all knowingness of a laughing Buddha. “I’m sorry

dear husband but its like the Mafia, once you’re in there’s no way out. There is no going back. It will

be a little scary at first but….you’ll get used to it.”

“Oh, no I won’t. I’ll do my share but I’m no sister in the sorority. No way baby. No way!”

I figured that she was just messing with my head, but the notion, the threat, was still deeply

disturbing. I plunged my fists into my pockets grabbing a handful of my man package behind the veil

of my fly for reassurance, as blokes are inclined to do, and I turned on my heels, departing the room,

“A solemn procession of one”

She was certainly correct on at least one account. Having wandered too close to the ruins I had to

face up to the spectre. As every old tripper knows, running away from the nightmare only renders it

all the more real. “The only way out is through!” I returned to the scene of the crime and completed

the job with tremulous confidence. That is to say that I took on the task while wearing my concerns

like Gogol’s overcoat. I stuck my hand into the crawling mass of the sink stand cavity with the

trepidation of a snake charmer who has once been bitten. I scrubbed and clawed my way through

the grubby mass below the sink like a determined prisoner scratching his way to freedom. I attacked

the radiator, wiping and buffing the surface, with the pride and zeal of a Fort Knox janitor. As I

departed the room, I turned briefly to dwell on the fruits of my labour, and like a character out of

Hemingway, I knew “that it was good”.

As the day wore on and I moved throughout the labyrinth of our dormer bungalow I couldn’t help

but to notice the strange observations that were infiltrating my head. The wooden floors that had

gone otherwise unnoticed, even when I had passed over them with a vacuum, were now scarred to

the point of distraction. I made a mental note that at some time in the future, finances permitting, I

would love to get all the floors sanded and refinished. Then there were the filthy sofas that need to

be recovered, if not replaced altogether. And how many times had I traversed the flagstones in the

kitchen without noticing that they were in desperate need of a good steaming. The hood over the

stove, where I made at least one meal each day, was thick with oily grease; yet another revelation.

Dust appeared like my nemesis everywhere I looked. My eyes weren’t my eyes anymore. I couldn’t

stop seeing my environment through the prism of female paranoia. For the first time in my life I

understood why Howard Hughes had locked himself away in a hermetically sealed room. There was

no avoiding the truth. I was trapped within the confines of a woman’s mind. I became obsessed with

cleaning.

Fortunately, for me, the visitors from America were absolutely delightful; so much so that it was

genuinely difficult taking money upon their departure; not a notion, I might add that would have

crossed ‘the’ woman’s mind, which isn’t to suggest that she isn’t generous by nature; she can do

giving, when so inclined, to a near fault. However, as the household financial manager, a burden that

she carries along in the trunk of her massive mortal cargo, she can not afford the luxury of economic

equivocation. Unlike me, she in not afflicted with financial ambiguity, or as she likes to call

it…….”total irresponsibility”. To this I am prepared to concede a plea; to the misdemeanour at least.

The weekend was a bit of a blur considering that I was entertaining, feeding and/or driving seven

guests, my own four daughters and two teenage sleepover friends. Although I was loath to admit it I

was gaining insight as to why so many women tend to operate with such frenetic compulsivity.

Setting aside for the moment that the job often requires a mad scramble from Billy to Jack, there is

also a fearful, burning awareness that if one were to stop, for even a minute, the whole false edifice

would collapse like a house of cards.

It’s as good a time as any to digress, laying all levity, aside to touch on what turned out to be the

most poignant lesson from this experience. For years, no different than the mass of males

throughout the world, I couldn’t figure out what my wife had been complaining about. The work,

from the outside looking in, didn’t appear to be all that physically or mentally demanding. It frankly

seemed to be a doodle by comparison to the pressure that went with bringing home the bacon. In

my life, as a creative independent, I have to constantly make something out of nothing. I only get

paid for what I can manifest from my imagination. In the first instance, she had never been at all

reluctant to credit me profusely for what I do well. Secondly the domestic job does throw up hot

spots that are very physically demanding. Most importantly, the repetitious mediocrity, the mind

numbing perpetualism and the thankless insignificance, which is to say, the familial emotional

negligence, is more than enough to drive any human, regardless of their gender, well beyond the

bitter edge. While it is not universally so for every woman millions, if not billions, of marital

‘partners’ surrender the individual within, dwindle and/or die on the vine, as their lives become little

more than a slave to the rhythm. And to whatever degree I might allow myself to take pride from

the learning it is to my eternal shame that it has taken me eighteen years of marriage to recognise

what is painfully obvious.

As to the special ones, who have both a career and a job at home, it only adds insult to injury. Lucky

her, not only does she have to cook the bacon and clean up the mess, she gets to share in the

privilege of killing the pig as well.. Oh hum, for whatever reason could she not be happy? I do

wonder.

The following three days, after the guests had departed, proved to be some of the most challenging

days of my life. While I may have done harder labour, particularly in my youth when my body was

more fit and able, it’s the schismatic nature of the job, the constant cleaning and cooking and

washing and wiping, the rushing to and fro, the demands of the kids as though ones only duty was to

be at their beck and call, the inability to focus on any given task when focus is most

required……………. There is no point in reciting the whole litany that most women know by heart and

that too few men are prepared to respond to. It’s just bottomless, this well of domestic

consciousness. It would take the length of this article to the tenth power to list every item that I

ploughed through over those few days.

Godzilla lives in the laundry room. Over the course of the six day I did twenty seven loads of laundry.

That’s washing, hanging on the line; damp drying, ironing, folding, pairing, itemizing, categorizing

and putting away. I call it Godzilla because it doesn’t matter how much artillery you spend or how

many shots that you take at it, it keeps on coming back, relentlessly larger each time! I mentioned

this to our neighbour Catherine. I said “it’s like chaos out in front of you and a collapsing wormhole

behind you. You’re just running to stay alive.” Catherine laughed out loud, I believe at the novelty of

a man sharing in a woman’s pain and then she dropped the line like the proverbial penny, thumping

me on my noggin, She said “My Mother use to call it “Sweeping leaves in the wind” Checkmate! It

couldn’t have been explained better.

When Adele did arrive home what she found was a chamber of refined cleanliness. While it wasn’t

perfect, because once inside a woman’s mind perfection is impossible, it was well within the

prescriptive of her own exceptionally high standards.

I took her on a tour of the house; yes, to some degree, because I required a solid dose of affirmation

for my efforts, but equally, I would like to think anyway, to see her relaxed and at one with herself.

She was genuinely pleased, beyond mere satisfaction, to the point of near wonderment. As she

stood there on the precipice, I nudged her over the edge by escorting her into the sitting room

where the candles were lit and the bottle of wine was chilling in the bucket. I had, of course, put a

place mat under the frothy container to ensure there would be no watermark the following morning.

With women the devil is most definitely in the detail.

Having worn the skin of a woman, and in that regard having completed my degree, I was obliged to

confess that I completely comprehended the inequities that had gone before. I have since pledged

that this wasn’t a once off and that I would continue to fulfil my duty as an equal and contributing

partner.

I am fully aware that numerous men will want to murder me and that I may ultimately have to

change my name and disappear into the witness protection programme. But if I’m to be dragged

before the court of my own gender I would offer up the following in my defence. In the first

instance, it may seem that I’ve taken on a lot more strife for little reward. Nothing could be further

from the truth. Not only has our couple conflict dissipated to a negligible degree but more and more

it has been replaced with a generous and kindred communication. Over and above our own

enjoyment in each others company, our children have been the beneficaries of our greater civility.

And in that regard, we should all feel deeply obliged to recognize that their future happiness, if not

their sanity, will to some degree be a by-product of our marital coalescence.

I will go even further by saying that I have witnessed the resurgence of the woman that I once

married. For a very long time I have harboured the fear that she was dead and buried. Moreover, I

have carried the guilt that I was the most culpable party in her demise. It would be hard for one to

imagine the relief, without going through the process, in finding out that she is not only alive and

well, but more miraculously still capable of loving me in a way that she once did a long time ago.

That woman that I once wed was famous for wearing her joie de vivre on her sleeve. I am gleeful to

remake her acquaintance and thrilled with the possibility of falling in love all over again. And who

would of ‘thunk’ it? She was there all along buried beneath a mountain of laundry.

We have all heard and read numerous discussions regarding the complexities of building and

maintaining a long term relationship. I suspect there are some truths in all of them. However, the

one universal truth that comes out of this experience is that a peaceful, prosperous, loving

coexistence can only survive and thrive in the long run where both parties are prepared and fully

committed to the recognition, the support and the promotion of the other person as an individual.

And ironically our own individual survival, within the context of the relationship, is proportionally

interdependent on the elevation and the edification of the relevant other. Or in simple terms, the

more complete that she can be, the more fulfilled that I become. Let us call it the marital law of

motion.

Lest that you thought you might come out of this unscathed, ladies, I have reserved my final criticism

for you. In general, with some exceptions, your communication skills regarding these matters do

often times suck! All that white noise, which usually manifests as a persecution complex, falls well

short of conveying the big idea. If you prefer, if it makes it easier to swallow the criticism, you can go

with the daytime television version that suggests that all men are simple creatures that require more

basic language. Either way, here are the words that you’ve been looking for all these many years.

And however it may sound, I’m not saying this condescendingly. I never would have discovered the

language if I hadn’t ventured through the backwoods of a woman’s mind.

‘Dear husband, it is like this. You are sailing over the waters of your life, and however calm or

turbulent those waters may be, and I have no doubt that there are great challenges ahead and

difficulties in maintaining the integrity of your craft but………….. I am no longer on board. I’ve gone

over. That’s me that you see bobbing in the water. I’m drowning……in

repetition………mediocrity………..insignificance and irrelevance; I am submerged. No, it is not difficult

to tread water per se but no-one could survive, having to do it all day and everyday. Did I mention

that I’m drowning? It’s not that I require a little help or assistance. I am actually going under and I

need you to jump in with me. Do what you need to do to anchor your craft, and you might want to

consider the value of having me back on board, but for the moment I need you to jump in ……………

or contact your lawyer. However much I may love you I am not prepared to surrender my life in

favour of yours!

It is a clear and simple analogy and regardless of his intellectual capabilities, or lack thereof, it should

be readily comprehensible to any male, unless the man is a sociopath. However, if it turns out that

he is so thick or otherwise entrenched in his predisposition, I strongly recommend that you hand him

a toothbrush and point him towards the bathroom. It certainly worked for me!

Chapter 2: Teaching the Monkey to Dance

My sister Kimberly is the only woman I have ever known who seems to have a firm grasp of the

techniques required to train the male of our species. In my mind she stands alone, sort of like Diane

Fossey, but camped upon the evolutionarily elevated hills of humanity. If she ever gets around to

writing the book it will probably be called ‘gorillas in our midst’. She would be well qualified to write

the book. As you will see below she has certainly done the field work.

It is most relevant to note that Kimberly was born into a home where she was the youngest of seven

- the six above her all being males. It would be sociologically accurate to suggest that she was forced

by fate to hone her survival skills at a very early age or she might otherwise have been rumbled into

oblivion. To her credit she proceeded, like all successfully developed personalities, to seize upon

adversity as an opportunity rather than a hindrance, garnering, I might add, numerous accolades

along the way. Amongst other things she could pretty much take on all challengers at arcade games,

ball games, and games in general. In particular she has her name etched into the permanent

historical record by being the first female in the state to go out and bat for a boy’s baseball team.

She was hardly in the vanguard of the revolution but she knocked in a run for the feminist side. Or

was it a walk? Either way, she scored early and took the field where others wouldn’t have dared to

dream.

As an intelligent female, she couldn’t have helped but glean some considerable insight from

observing a large community of male homo-sapiens at close quarters. Moreover, she was and is her

father’s only daughter. Kimberly became effortlessly adept at pushing his buttons and pulling his

strings and generally getting ‘the man’ to perform to her will. And in that regard she was equally

proficient at getting the boys, one and all, to dance to her tune.

Moving forward, all these many years later, she now resides in a home that is occupied by both her

first and second husbands and the three children born from both marriages. And yes I must say it

again, because it is hard to take in at first, my sister does share a home with both the man to whom

she is presently married and the bloke that she formerly divorced. No, it is not an instance of

polygamy. She isn’t a feminist fundamentalist Mormon or anything so twisted. To my knowledge she

is not a part of a cult that owes allegiance to Sappho and the women of Lesbos; not that it would

surprise me if she was….although I think not; she has no taste for muffin. In that way, only, she is a

normal woman. Her epicurean predilections veer decidedly and absolutely towards éclairs and hot

sticky buns. Oh my! I am getting in deeper and deeper here. I had better clarify before this passage

falls prey to allusions pornographic. There is genuinely, no I swear, no kinky business there. It is, just

a case of extreme civility on the part of all three parties. I am only endeavoring to give credit where

credit is due; all sides conceding ground equally for the good of the kids and the equanimity of

everybody concerned. However, there is no doubt in my mind who the puppet master is in this

‘marriage à trois’.

Kimberly insists that it all works perfectly and harmoniously. She says the duties are shared more or

less equally, although she hastens to add that she is speaking specifically about the duties beyond

the bedroom door. As a rule, Billy, the original husband, stays at home with the kids whenever

Kimberly is traveling with Mike, the new and improved model, or whenever they want a little time

off for a date or a dirty weekend away. I am not certain what added value Mike brings to the party

precisely other than being younger and fitter but, from the outside looking in, it appears that he

comes with more buttons and he’s easier to operate. I believe that his batteries last longer as well.

Although this is all supposition on my part; nothing scientific about it!

You could imagine how surprised I was when she showed up in London not long ago with both

husbands in tow. It was a remarkable break with tradition. When I managed to get her to one side I

enquired, “So how is this working out then….two husbands on the road?” Kimberly has this way of

smiling with a very innocent coquettishness that perfectly masquerades the wickedness that lingers

within. Although it is important to point out that it is a mischievous wickedness as opposed to the

more malicious variety. I am reminded of the infamous line that came from the animated mouth of

Jessica Rabbit, “I don’t mean to be bad, I’m just drawn this way.” Anyway, after the perfunctory

pause Kimberly responded to my query. She said, “I like traveling with both husbands. It’s perfect

really! I have one along for the sex and one for carrying the luggage. What more could a girl want?”

Indeed! And as it happened, the parents-in-law – that would be from the present marriage – were at

home with the kids. Even more perfect. Their familial arrangement isn’t that unlike ‘The Waltons’

except that there are two Big Johns instead of one.

Okay, I do recognize how queerly anomalous Kimberly’s situation might seem to Susie Q. Public;

particularly as my sister manages to maintain the controls in a two husband environment where

most women struggle with one. What can I say ladies? Move beyond your envy. Although, I can’t

help but rub salt in the wound. I am informed, by women in the know, that H2 (husband two) is oh

so gorgeous; as fit as a footballer and something of a fusion between George Clooney and José

Mourinho. (It may be a good moment to take time for a tea break or perhaps to facilitate yourself in

whatever way seems most appropriate. You will need all your powers of concentration hence forth!)

Now, back to the ever so modern family.

From a purely anthropological perspective, their seemingly abnormal arrangements could actually

be explained as a quest for normality. We are all aware of the impact on the modern woman that

transpired from the breakdown of the traditional extended family. The preponderance of the

nuclear-family, setting aside the broader sociological ramifications, has, more than any other factor,

increased the domestic burden on the average woman; and in that context added to her sense of

isolation. This condition has been discussed and over discussed ad infinitum in the media. The

problem has been excessively dissected and the possible solutions have been, to say the very least,

poorly conceived, if conceived at all, and certainly rarely articulated. And in this regard, my sister

and her two husbands, three children and the in-laws are breaking new ground. They are, it could be

argued, navigating a course back to tradition through the choppy waters of modern times.

Oh, and add to the above, the neighbors next door; a couple with three children of their own.

Between the two families the whole lot of them move so casually from house to house sharing

meals, lives, duties that an outsider would be hard pressed to decipher who lives where and who

belongs to whom.

The part that amuses me most is that the majority of them are socio-politically conservative, people

who vote Republican, yet they are living their lives like a bunch of hippies. Billy is the only card-

carrying lefty, a long-haired musician, who has in recent years turned his hand to property

development. They are like Obama’s Utopian dream; right and left living together in perfect

harmony, as one, in a higher communal order; proof positive that there is a real potential for

harmonious communal accord beyond the biases of party affiliation.

I believe that my sister operates within a sphere of ‘new life management’ that is supremely

superior to most of her gender. She did not get bogged down in the broader ‘reactionary’ feminist

agenda; a subject that I take up in the following chapter. I am not sure if Kimberly even functions

from a conscious feminist perspective in terms of fighting the revolution from the home front or if it

is just a case of not giving a damn what the world beyond her stoop thinks as long as she, herself, is

liberated in the “I and I”. I suspect the latter. She has never had much of a tolerance for ‘group-

think’.

While I have always known that my sister is clever I only came to know how clever she truly is when

she came to stay with me for a few months just prior to her second round of nuptials. For whatever

reasons, Mike and Kimberly decided to get hitched in Ireland. Kimberly arrived with her two

children, a few months ahead of the event, to make arrangements.

Inviting her over in the first place almost turned out to be one of the most daft and disastrous

decisions that I ever made. You see, I failed to mention it to my wife before suggesting it to my

sister. It was one of those quintessentially bad examples of ‘man-think’. Adele believed it to be more

of a case of non-think but honestly it wasn’t like that. I genuinely thought that I was being clever on

my wife’s behalf.

The circumstances were such that my mother in law, with whom we shared the family home, had

only recently died. I figured that the company of another woman would help to lift the cloud of grief

that hung over Adele. It was, of course, highly flawed logic. I have since learned that there are no

shortcuts through the grieving process. The last thing that anybody needs, while so low in the soul, is

the invasion of others, familiar or otherwise; that is to say after the initial funereal episode has

receded. What my wife clearly needed, as she explained to me later, was time, space and domestic

autonomy. What she got was another alpha-female and two more kids.

Initially I thought it was all the additional chaos that was making her hiss like a bag of cats but

ultimately I came to realize that the major hitch in the works was the intrusion of another woman

upon her fragile territory; creating a most acute and fractious tension. It wasn’t Kimberly per se. Any

new dog in the yard would have led to a stand-off. If anything we were fortunate regarding the two

that were in it. Ultimately they were sophisticated enough to figure it out and mature enough to talk

it out. Predictably I ended up in the dog house both before and after the fact; a convenient fall-guy

as it were, tied to a whipping post that was, at least in part, of my own making.

To whatever degree that I was or wasn’t the guilty party was incidental; regarding my obligatory role

as the minority male. I was obliged to keep my head down and to chip in whenever and wherever I

could. I was still approaching housework then as helping out with ‘her’ work or penance or both.

This was sometime before I would take on my new vocation as a domestic engineer. I was nothing

more than a dilettante in the company of dedicated practitioners.

It was on the occasion of my being up to my elbows in soap suds that I became aware of Kimberly’s

expert mastery of the male mind and the corresponding mechanics as it relates to the former. My

sister came walking by the sink as I was scrubbing away at the pots and pans. And, as though it were

second nature, she said, ever-so-matter-of-factly, “nothing sexier than a man doing dishes.”

Needless to say I perked up. I mean I really could not believe what I was hearing. It was truly a

revelation, I’m sure not unlike the warm and fuzzy feeling that must have come over Pavlov’s dog

when the mutt realized that he had just had a breakthrough with his master. I don’t believe that I

actually said eureka but it felt that way. I seem to recall that my precise words were,

“what….what….what did you say?” She repeated the phrase with the knowing smirk of a Las Vegas

hypnotist who had subliminally seduced his subject to cluck like a chicken. Yes, she was only a

minority of one but it gave me hope that, just maybe, the chasm between the sexes could be

bridged. We might yet be able to understand each other and finally….finally come to some workable

accommodation.

I have no doubt that somewhere on this planet there are other women who have solved the riddle

of the sphinx. For all I know they could number in the millions; Doubtful, but I must at least

acknowledge the possibility if only to hang onto hope. But in my experience this was the first

evidence of any woman being in possession of the key that unlocks the treasure.

The relevant factor is this: not all men, but most men, will actually respond positively and

productively to affirmation. Setting aside the whole debate regarding social justice, for the moment,

if you will, the irrefutable fact is that we are much easier to train with a carrot than we are with a

stick. But before a woman can consider or examine the detail of this radical theory they must ask

themselves the one essential question. It is crucial in terms of establishing the foundation of the

debate. Is it your objective to lead the campaign for social reformation or are you just looking for

more free time and a better quality of life? This question is fundamental because it establishes the

logical course of action. If one is motivated by the broader equality issues the training required

should be either political or journalistic. The highest ideal would probably be to run for office. If, on

the other hand, one is driven by a ‘life quality’ self interest motive you will need schooling more akin

to zoology.

Women complaining about the uselessness of men via the media - not to mention the female public

at large - have become a constant to the point of cliché. We are told obsessively and relentlessly that

the majority of men are barely functioning primates. Not being one to question the woman’s

obviously superior debating skills I am obliged to accept this opinion at face value. There must be

some truth to it if only as a product of the prevalence of the opinion itself. And if it is so, is the logical

question not then how to teach the monkey to dance? And then in this regard, assuming that

women are the organ grinders, wouldn’t it be wiser to stock up on bananas rather than stones. It

may feel good to pelt the poor dumb beast, in a righteously sadistic sort of way, but as the superior

gender, you must see that a reward system is going to deliver better results than maintaining an

endless cycle of abuse.

Hiding behind the barricades of febrile, feministic indignation may bolster one’s sense of self. It may

comfort you to erect an edifice of justification. But where is the practical sense in it? Are women not

alleged to be the far more practical gender? How can righteousness and indignation act to alter or

break the pattern of tedium and exhaustion? How can it release you from the chains of domestic

servitude? It certainly hasn’t proven to yield success up to now.

There are a minority of men who are prepared to be contributors to a greater or lesser degree from

a perspective of emotional guilt and/or intellectual social justice. However, the real driver for the

vast majority of the male population is personal self interest. I don’t expect women to like this; nor

am I suggesting that they should accept it. But if you genuinely hope to move Mr. Monkey on, you

are going to have to recognize it as part of the process of liberation.

I am of the opinion that the whole women’s liberation platform is highly flawed. I expound on this in

great detail in the following chapter. Suffice it to say for now that the woman entwined in the

mangled web of domestic dependency knows what is required. Her awareness is not the issue. It is

in fact the man who needs to be liberated from his ignorance and elevated to a higher stratum of

social consciousness.

There is a separate discussion to be had regarding women who have acquiesced to being happily

miserable. I call this ‘sufferbation’ and I discuss it at length in my soon to be completed book

“Laughing with Depression”. In brief, the term refers to a person who derives a twisted satisfaction

from their own suffering and a perverse pleasure from sharing their misery with others. However,

this is neither the time nor the place to digress into the vagaries of debilitating neurosis. It is far too

broad a subject to cover in this context. For the moment it is only my intention to focus on a

reasonable set of actions for those women who are prepared to recognize reasonably that new and

progressive actions are required.

But prior to outlining the solutions I must first cast greater illumination on the problem.

Over several months, through the early stages of my domestic development, I allowed a residue of

aggravation to build up. It seemed that the more that I contributed to the greater whole, the more

that Adele bypassed all my good work in favor of pointing out what else could or should have been

done. She would pass right through the cleared and swept hallway, walk by the two tidied front

rooms, glide over the vacuumed floors, ignore the spotlessly scoured kitchen; dishes washed and put

away, counters wiped down etc….and then make some off handed comment about the deck that

needed to be brushed or a fire that should have been lit or one of a myriad other possibilities.

You could imagine my frustration! In the first instance she knows better than anybody that a person,

any person, regardless of gender, could put in twelve hours straight in our house and never come

close to getting it all done. There is simply far too much to do. Adele has done the hard labor herself.

She knows, or at least she should have known, that finding the balance is a never ending exercise.

You pick up tomorrow where you collapsed today.

Moreover, no man in his right mind would consider offering up such critical commentary when the

roles are reversed. His wife, any wife, would cut him in half with a bread knife and the judge would

acquit by reason of justifiable homicide. Or at the very least she would have no difficulty getting him

committed to an institution; And only too right! Because to utter such words would be irrefutably

insane!

The most flagrant flaw in this highly objectionable error in judgment is the missed opportunity. Just a

small morsel of nuanced manipulation would deliver the desired end. And I am not talking about

promises of sex or a back massage or a night out on the town. Just something simple like, “Gee love,

so nice to come home to a clean house. Great job! Now, when you’ve had a few moments and a cup

of coffee I would appreciate it if you could help me with x, y and z.”

Sure, go ahead! Rave on about all the work that women do and all the praise and thanks they never

get. Are your complaints righteous? Absolutely! Are your complaints clever? Absolutely not! Is it

about him paying up in penance for past crimes done? Or is it about you throwing off your shackles,

stepping out and having a life? Women are supposed to be smarter than that. Or at least this is what

you keep telling us. Throw the monkey a banana! The more that he gets, the more he will do. It may

shock a lot of women to find this out but you have been right about men all along. We are, by our

nature, very simple creatures. We can actually be trained to maintain a regular order as a matter of

habit. But the one absolute and unavoidable truth is that ‘he’ must be affirmed as part of the

process.

I understand that most women never, if ever, get praised for all that they do. Although, I have

actually begun to do just that having seen the reality from the other side. Take note! But I am not

talking about praise. What I am talking about is the feeling of abject disillusionment that arises in the

absence of affirmation. In his mind he is doing what he is doing to make you happy. If you are lucky

he actually still loves you. Even if it is that delusional, marital love devoid of any remaining romance

and born of mutual dependency, it is still opportune. If he thinks that he has made you happy you

can get him to do more. You can get him to go further. It is about recognition rather than praise. It is

about training rather than complaining. To recognize the work that he has done promotes him to

continue. To negate the effort by piling on more without first affirming what has gone before

communicates a message of failure. He starts to ask himself ‘why the hell should I do jack if it’s only

going to leave me further behind the eight ball?’ Don’t fall for the obvious mistake. Throw the

monkey a banana!

There was one morning, a year or so ago, when I did the school run, as I now do every morning,

brought her breakfast in bed, as I now do on most mornings, cleaned the kitchen, took out the bin

and then headed to the shop to get a bale of briquettes to light the fire in the kitchen stove. She

likes to come down to a cozy, warm kitchen. And for those of you who don’t reside in Ireland,

briquettes are blocks of pressed peat that comes from the bog; great for a quick fire in a wood

burning stove. By the time I returned home from the shop Adele was down in the kitchen getting a

second cup of coffee. I was halfway between the kitchen door and the pot belly stove, with I might

add the bale of briquettes in plain view, when she says, “Jeez it’s cold in here. Would you ever light

that fire?” I looked over at her with a deadpan stare until I was sure that I had her attention; and

then I looked down at the briquettes for affect, paused, returning my glare to her with an added

supercilious disdain; all before dropping the briquettes on the floor and announcing, “I’m going on

strike!”

My horror is that one day she will find me stone cold dead on the kitchen floor and the first words

out of her mouth will be, “Now, who am I going to get to light that stove?”

I have my theories regarding the origins and manifestations of the female obsessive compulsive

disorder but I’ll get there further on. For now I am just trying to illustrate the point.

On another occasion Adele appeared at the kitchen door, at half past ten at night, wearing a road

weary look that I knew all too well from my own many years of traveling. I had witnessed that

weathered mask in my own reflection more times than I could count. The face is stricken with the

effects of gravity and heaving with exhaustion from pushing both body and mind well beyond the

limits. Adele owned my empathy without uttering a word. I knew that she had been going flat out

since dawn. Her day had started with a long drive to the market, followed by a two hour set-up, a

day of dealing with the customers, a two hour break down and the longer, torturous drive home. I

felt certain that if the woman didn’t sit down she was going to fall down. I said, “Baby, go put your

feet up in the front room. I know how you feel. I’ll bring you a bite to eat and a cup of tea. Just relax.

I will be along in a minute.”

Having been exposed to the vitriol of a domestic under duress, which is to say having been on the

receiving end, I am resolved to not unload with the detail of my day when her bedraggled self falls

through the door. It is for this reason that I empathetically instructed her to recline and be served.

I can be forgiven, I believe, for thinking that the obvious and natural response should have been,

“Thanks love, a sandwich and a cup of tea would be lovely.” No such luck! To my shock and horror

she launched into a diatribe regarding the stacks of laundry that still littered the kitchen table. I was

further cross examined as to why I refused to get the teenagers involved in the process. Now I must

digress.

The teenagers and their lack of participation in the house, other than contributing to the mess, has

been an ongoing debate between us for quite some time. As Adele would have it, not only am I

supposed to do the work to her exceptionally high standards, which is fair enough, but I am equally

expected to remake the girls in her image. This would be an utterly unachievable objective for any

man, particularly this man, even if I were so inclined….and I am not….so inclined. But even if I were,

the exercise would prove to be a remarkably poor application of the principles of time and motion.

Suffice it to say that the jobs get done to a much higher standard, in a fraction of the time and

completely free of conflict when the adolescents are omitted from the mechanism. And when I point

out the obvious I am lambasted with a lengthy rebuttal as to how this is bad training for the future.

I want to say, ‘Hey, you didn’t do jack-shit in your mother’s house and you turned out okay.’ But as

her mother’s memory is holy, and I can’t see the point in stirring up old guilt, I choose to hold my

tongue.

As to my beliefs, as it relates to the children’s future domestic standards and practices, I truly and

justifiably could not be bothered. It is for them to learn, as their mother learned, when and if the

need arises. The inclination to clean will probably come to them like it did for the rest of us; when

the boyfriend is likely to be invited in or when the roommate threatens to throw them out. But

however they choose to manage their household order is none of my concern. As long as they are to

some degree happy, contented and productive, they can live like jolly little pigs and go with my

blessing. And by the by, I figure that I am probably doing my daughters a great service by not

exposing them, at an early age, to gender specific training. If they are going to need to keep a house

clean and tidy to retain a man, then I believe, they have clearly chosen the wrong man or failed to

train him properly. I am quite determined that my daughters will never be slaves to the rhythm.

When my eldest was born I stated out loud, with my wife as witness, that this child would be

prepared to enter the outside world as a woman who will take no shit. I testified to the same

promise when the following three girls were born. I said this and have since pursued this goal

because I know how disrespectful and manipulative some men can be. I know how bad and rotten I

sometimes was towards the women in my life when I was younger. My peace of mind will come

down to knowing absolutely that my daughters will be able to handle and avoid the worst of what

the world has to offer in the pursuit of the best for themselves. And in the interest of ensuring that

they maintain their individuality I will be sure to advise them on the merits of stock-piling bananas.

When my wife doth protest too much, as in, “ Those girls get away with murder or….They won’t

scratch themselves or….You’ve got to make them do their share.”…. “Oh no”, say I, “Because I am

doing their share and my share and a lot of what was formerly your share. When it was your pitch

the fair distribution of labor was your prerogative. But now, respectfully, dear love of my life, how I

get the job done in your absence, as long as the jobs get done, is frankly none of your business. Your

business is now ‘your business’ as you have chosen. And I wish you nothing but good hunting in all

your commercial pursuits. The house, on the other hand, is my business and how I choose to

manage it is absolutely my business and my business alone.”

It is a curious thing that most women are obsessed with the notion of visiting the inequities of their

own existence upon their daughters. Why are they so diligent about subjugating their female

offspring to an identity that more times than not will lead them into the very cul de sac that they

themselves so resent? You can forgive me for speculating that it might be a case of misery loving its

own genetic company. If a woman truly loves her daughters and wishes a better life for them, it

seems logical that she would raise the daughter as though she were a son. Go on now, argue with

that!

Back to the night in question. After allowing Adele a brief moment to vent about the clothes yet to

be put away, and the girls’ lack of participation in the process, I elected to take pity on her and I

responded in a more abbreviated way. I said simply, “What part of a man folding laundry at half past

ten at night are you struggling with?’ Which aspect of me asking you to relax as I pander to your

needs and desires has caused you to feel so aggrieved?”

I mean, really, spare a thought for the ‘new man’; It just isn’t as easy as it should be. Ironic, if you

think about it. On the one side we are submitted to a relentless pelting by the blokes who still hold

sway in the troglodyte camp. I am renowned amongst my mates as ‘the most pussy whipped man on

the planet.’ And then on the other side of the fence is the woman. Is she thrilled with my ever

greater participation in the domestic scheme of things? Is she what? Oh, no no! Every job done or

accepted is seen as an opportunity to pile on more. Criticism flows in a way that no traditional man

is ever exposed to. It seems that we who have chosen to subscribe to the equality agenda are also

obliged to suffer the penance due for every male transgression since the beginning of recorded

history. And women go parading themselves as the mavens of social justice! Perhaps this is fair

considering the historical record but justice is proving to be a hard bargain.

Anyway, the sarcasm was not lost on her. Adele retreated to the solemnity of the sofa. She may be a

bit obsessive but she is by no means stupid.

I entered the sitting room wearing the demeanor of a properly trained, well intentioned butler; the

tea towel draped over my arm with the service tray in hand. I set the tray aside for a moment and

pulled the coffee table closer to the sofa so that she wouldn’t have to stretch herself. I then took off

her boots, lifted her feet and laid them ever so gently upon the cushion. The tray was presented

containing a large mug of tea and a piled high deli style sandwich, all done of course with

subservient celebrity. At this point I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Really Adele, if you think about it,

I’m like some new bride right out of the pages of the Kama Sutra; I’m like a 1950s housewife. Do you

know how many men would only love to marry a woman like me?” The line was delivered with the

cheeky smirk of a Cheshire cat. Adele seemed amused.

I have observed that she only suspends the stress and truly relaxes when she is on her backside. It is

only when the breakfast is served at her bedside or when she slumps into the sofa at night that the

hackles recede. There is an undeniable correlation between the soles of her feet and a kind of manic

overdrive; a need to not only keep on going at a breakneck speed but a compulsion as well to drag

everybody along at her pace.

And it is important to note that this is not in any way unique to Adele. I have observed that most

women I know suffer from the same affliction. I have heard and read many theories on the subject

from a gender predisposition to a low self esteem complex but, for me, common sense offers the

best explanation. Setting aside that their mothers have at least some complicity in the fomentation

of a psychochemical disorder it seems that they are largely the way they are because they are born

into a world that offers them few options. They can’t slow down for fear that their world will

collapse in on them but they are constantly in a state of collapse because they can’t slow down.

Women recognize the social imbalance and the need to retrain the male of the species - but how to

find the time not to mention the technique? Therefore they complain instead of train because it is so

hard to see the forest for the trees; all the while beating the drums loudly in the hope of driving

some marginal assistance out of the undergrowth. Of course, the only way to break out of this self

defeating cycle is to choose delegation over consternation which I will get to in the conclusion.

The question that constantly pricked at my psyche was, ‘why isn’t she thrilled to have me take over,

to stand aside and just let it happen?’ Why was she so obsessed with holding onto the controls and

lording over the lot of us? One would reasonably expect that any woman, that all women, would be

over the moon at the prospect of relinquishing large chunks of their former duty with few questions

asked. You see, it is not just about knowing how to train the monkey; it is also about achieving

performance proficiency. The woman has to learn how to do something that is evidently foreign to

her nature.

Having trained the beast to some greater or lesser degree the woman is obliged at some point in the

process to stand back and just let the monkey dance. It is alright to subtly crack the whip but only

when done with an equal measure of applause. One should overlook small infractions and keep an

eye on the big picture. And don’t forget to keep tossing in the bananas. It is so critical. In the

absence of promotion and a bond of trust he will only find rejection and ultimately refuse to

perform.

It is a fascination to me that more women don’t go out on strike. The miners strike. Bin-men strike.

Factory workers strike. The civil service strikes at the drop of a hat. But wives never ever go out on

strike. It is far more cost-effective than divorce and could possibly deliver better results. In addition

to the obvious, a stop work policy could give you the respite that you need and surely deserve if well

timed and managed. Just remember to write a note; something along these lines, ‘Darling, I have

opted to spend the grocery money on a weekend away at the spa. We will discuss the terms of my

re-engagement upon my return. Enjoy your time with the children. Try not to burn down the house.

You will understand that I am withholding any commitment to present or future love until new

terms are agreed. Regards, wife on strike’! That should get his attention.

It is hard to argue against the science that women are genetically wired to keep the home fires

burning. For that matter both genders are products of natural selection. Amongst others, Dawkins

argues this point well. We may have moved on slightly in recent generations. Women have certainly

become more active in the hunt. But the harsh reality is that neither gender, regardless of their

public pronouncements, is completely attuned to a fully flexible cohabitational social structure. We

are still feeling our way through the amorphous stage and real practical solutions will only manifest

through conscious individual negotiations.

My Aunty Anne, a hip, well read sixties survivor and my mentor in all matters concerning couple shit

– everybody should have one – explains it thus. She told me that it would be unreasonable to expect

Adele to give up the habits developed over decades in too short a time frame. Aunty Anne contends

that we are both on a steep learning curve. Some more time will be required for us to adopt our new

roles fully and to surrender our old regimes. Moreover, the pace of each individual’s transition will

be separate and not necessarily move in perfect timing with the other. She concedes that there is

probably some element of genetic programming in play but not so prohibitive that we cannot move

beyond it. You can see why I seek Aunty Anne’s counsel. And in this instance her counsel suggests

patience.

Aunty Anne went on to tell a little true life parable to build on the point. Many years ago, way back

when in the seventies, she was friends with a most progressive couple. The man was a new man

probably before the term was coined. His wife proclaimed that he was attentive in all ways and

particularly useful on the domestic front. He was not only an excellent cook but more unusually he

cleaned up after himself and he contributed more or less equally with the house keeping. In today’s

world he would be a giant among women. But back then, in Ireland, he was almost a one off.

There was an occasion when numerous women friends, who had gathered for an all female get-

together, felt compelled to tell the wife just how fortunate she was to have such a man. They, of

course, all railed on about how none of ‘their partners’ ever lifted a finger etc…etc…etc… The

woman, so admired for her uniquely fortunate matrimony, then dropped a bomb, ever so casually,

that left the others flabbergasted. She sighed agreeably that he was comparatively a good husband,

all things considered, but that he did what he did for all the wrong reasons. Needless to say, the

other ‘ladies’ were astounded that one, so apparently lucky could be so picky and ungrateful. But

she went on to explain that he only did his share because his sense of social justice wouldn’t allow

him to behave in any other way. At this point I rushed in, as fools often do, unbridled, and stated

what I thought to be the obvious. I questioned, “What is wrong with doing one’s share to be fair? I

mean, isn’t it supposed to be about gender equality?” As is my ilk, the vitriol rolled on for a while

before Aunty Anne could find a gap to interject. When the void did finally appear she said, “The

point is that he, the man in question, took the view that he was helping her with ‘her housework’

even though they both had busy professional careers.” Anne paused and it took me a long moment

before the penny finally dropped. It was like tick….tick….tick – wait for it – Ohhhhhhh! I got it. The

woman was pissed off because she was stuck in a rut of a whole other contour. She was made to be

perpetually grateful and gracious for ‘his’ kind and generous contribution to ‘her’ labors. When she

did the work it was a gender based duty. When he did the work, it was a gift from the gods. One can

readily see, even if one happens to have dangly-bits between the legs, how over time ‘the woman’

could find this state of affairs almost as demeaning and frustrating as doing the work herself.

At first it seemed to me that Aunty Anne’s story had gone off point. It was a couple of days later that

I copped the deeper meaning that she was trying to convey. It was not only Adele who still had some

ways to go in her understanding of the opposite gender. I too still had major strides to make on the

road to enlightenment. Moreover, she had given me the last piece of the puzzle, the missing point in

the diagram, the final step in teaching your monkey to dance.

The first step is to explain to him in calm unambiguous terms what your life is like and why it is that

way. Avoid whinging and moaning at all costs. This causes all men to go stone-deaf. They can see the

lips moving but the audio sounds like static.

Step two is to clearly outline a small group of jobs that you want him to take ownership of. Keep it

simple and focused. You can build on it later. And do up a list. Men relate to paper. It’s like a

contract. It gives them something to refer to. Women often make the mistake of saying ‘you should

know what needs to be done’, when a man asks for a list. Perhaps he should, but believe me he

doesn’t.

Part three is to walk him item by item through all procedures. He might be a nuclear engineer or an

airplane mechanic but a washing machine will leave him confounded. There is no detail too small.

Don’t assume that he knows anything about the operations of anything in the house that can’t be

found in a garage or a shed. Presume that he hasn’t a clue. He is well practiced at aversion. It’s an

innate reflex. You are carving out a new structure of consciousness in his mind.

The fourth step is to do a full review of all of his work before making any comment. Make certain

that all criticisms are preceded by a compliment or a statement of recognition. In this way it is not

unlike training a dog. Never beat the animal. It is alright to give him a little snap when he gets it

woefully wrong. You of course can’t let him develop bad habits that will be difficult to break later.

But always carry out your corrections in a balanced tone and never forget to stroke him when he

gets it right; or he might go back to dumping his shit on the carpet.

Note: Shock therapy such as cleaning the bathroom with a toothbrush can work with ‘some animals’.

But with all upgrades timing is everything. Don’t push him too far or too fast. One has to be wise to

gauge the gearing. You will have to rely on instinct and knowledge of the individual in terms of

planning the critical path.

Caution: If you find him weeping in a dark corner or crumpled up in the fetal position it is a fairly

reliable indication that you have pushed him to do too much too early. Take a step or two back and

proceed with greater caution.

You will know you have arrived at the final stage when a clear pattern of quality performance, over

an extended period of time, has emerged. The indicators are an agreed set of rooms constantly

tidied to a high standard; the ability to prepare a meal and clean the kitchen afterwards, including

dishes put away, pots and pans back in their rightful place, floor swept and counters wiped down. He

should also have the carpets and rugs vacuumed throughout with all child splatter – school bags,

toys, books, shoes, art supplies etc – returned to the relevant rooms and compartments.

The signs of very high achievement include any of the following done without spousal prompting;

windows washed inside and out, furniture dusted, and of course the Olympus of domestic

achievement….toilets scoured and porcelain polished.

Once he has arrived at the plateau of near perfection, keeping in mind that total perfection is

unachievable, he is ready for ascension, the quantum leap, to move out and survive beyond the

Rubicon; to take on and in the life changing realization that he is no longer helping with ‘your work’

but in fact doing ‘his rightful share’; and that it will be so until such a time as terms are renegotiated.

One must keep in mind, as a matter of most critical importance, that the objective is ultimately a fair

and balanced negotiated arrangement. It would be very easy for the woman to lose the run of

herself; and there are documented instances of this happening. She becomes so carried away by the

heady cocktail of power and control that in the end she finds herself with a selfless man who has

been whipped into submission. He must ultimately have a voice in the process and you have to be

open to a balanced dialogue. Otherwise you might come through the door one day and find a pasty

faced, mumbling eunuch, wrapped in an apron and randomly driving the vacuum in circles to the

ambient accompaniment of Dr. Phil in the background. This is a ruined male, a dead man walking, a

step too far! As incomprehensible as it may seem to some of you there are cases where women have

confused castration with liberation. You must keep an open ear or you may be left with a man who

can say little more than yes dear….yes dear….yes dear….

As it relates to dropping the bomb I would suggest a stroll on the boardwalk or a romantic dinner for

two to soften the blow; but some place in public to limit the potential for acrimony and displays of

outrage. It will be a shock, at first, for him to find out that he is being moved on from gracious

benevolence to a life of practical partnership. It will be as traumatic as when he realized, shortly

after the birth of his first child, that his life as he knew it was over. In some ways domestic equality is

worse. The birth of a child and all that goes with it is a traditional right of passage with in-built

mechanisms. However, coming to the realization that a large part of the work at home is in fact his

to be done and ‘his alone’, having nothing to do whatsoever with supporting his significant other, is

a radical gender shift. You can lesson his internal struggle by reminding him that he is on the

sociological cutting edge. Analogies along the lines of the Apollo missions or navigating the

Appalachian Trail could prove useful. Make it feel manly!

While it gives me no pleasure to say this, some women will have to come to terms with the reality

that they share a home with a man who is beyond training; usually because he refuses to take part in

the process; often because he rages with testosterone driven angst; and sometimes because he has

the intellectual capacity of a bull moose in heat. There is no getting around it. Unless you’re a rabid

right wing fundamentalist neo-conservative or a Quaker or perhaps the “Susie Homemaker” type,

there are hard choices ahead.

And by the way, I am not passing judgment on “Susie Homemaker”. While most modern women

would not choose this direction as a career choice, if she is prepared to choose domestic bliss as a

way of life, we are all obliged to respect her choice; and keep in mind that it is a hard and worthy

job. I have a sister in law who seems to fit into this category, at least from the outside looking in. I

may be wrong in my assessment but this is how it appears to me. And she has brought into the

world three of the most well-adjusted, talented and capable young women that you could ever

meet. Anarchy ‘aint’ for everybody and it is arguable that something has been lost in the mix. ‘Viva le

Difference!’

As it regards the others, they are left with a stark choice. Either they accept a life of relative misery

or they get a new-man model; presuming of course that they have exhausted the strike option and a

concerted run at man-training. If a woman chooses badly once it is fair to say ‘shame on him’.

However, if you do it a second time it is right to say ‘shame on you’.

I met a woman not so long ago who seemed blissfully happy the second time around. She chalked

this up to having a husband who is exceptionally able in the way of domestic diligence. She asserts

that the marriage works because in the key moment she didn’t blink. There he was, on bended knee,

full of the wonders of love and romance, sparkler in hand and asking her to be his betrothed. The

woman figured that it was as good a time as any to discuss the terms while he was still on his knees.

She said, “Okay, I’ll have you. But before you slip that thing on my finger, I want you to know that I

don’t cook, I don’t clean, I don’t even hoover. If you insist on having me you better make enough

money to hire a house keeper or be prepared to clean the place yourself. Either way is fine by me.

Oh, and by the way, I’m okay with dining out and ordering in.” Love is blind. He accepted her on her

terms.

Setting aside those rare few who are fortunate enough to have domestic help, or a husband who

arrives as agreeably as the one just mentioned above, there will be times during the training when

you will feel aggrieved. To have to praise him and to exercise great patience with him will surely, at

some point, fill you with umbrage. It might cut to the core of your feminist soul. But keep this in

mind. Society existed in some shape or form before you were born. It will continue to function in

some shape or form after you are gone. The matter at hand, the real issue for most women, is one of

living, truly living, beyond and above a life of mere existence while you are here. Moreover, the

revolution will and can never be won on the broader feminist field of battle. This isn’t to suggest that

the legislative, judicial and media aerial attacks have had no value. The anarchical front has fought a

noble war and they have won some worthy ground. But like most ugly conflicts the only real route to

sustainable victory comes with fighting town by town, street by street and house by house. It may at

times amount to a sordid nasty hand to hand combat. It surely will. But you can console yourself,

safe in the knowledge, that you are one most noble soldier, taking a valued stand, in a much greater

and worthy campaign. A man well trained is a foothold gained. By all means, go ahead and do it for

the sisterhood, if you are so moved; but most of all do it for yourself.

There is a life out there, above and beyond the romance, if you can find it within you to teach your

monkey to dance.