Men Are Helpless HatchlingsWhy Men Won't Survive the Apocalypse

Monday afternoon, Hubby came home early because - as has been unfortunately and dare I say devastatingly common lately - there was no work to do in the shop. I had a mountain of laundry to tackle and since our complex's laundry room is closed until the 21st for renovations, I headed off to the laundromat across the street. I figured on a Monday afternoon, how crowded could it be?

It took me three trips to get that mammoth load of laundry to the car. Should have been two but after I loaded two laundry baskets and one mesh Dora the Explorer hamper (yeah, I looked gangsta carrying that around) into the Tracker, started the car and backed out of my parking spot, I realized I'd forgotton the detergent. Dammit.

Back upstairs I go. Let's try this again.

So I get to the laundromat and much to my delight there were only two people there. Yay! It took me eight friggin' washers to wash everything I'd brought - and just think, I had another hamper at home with baby blankets in it that I hadn't brought - and it cost me $12.00. Thankfully, they have industrial-sized dryers that could probably handle all the fitted sheets from all the beds at the Luxor in one load, so it my drying cost was considerably cheaper.

But my true delight lay in knowing I had about an hour and a half of almost-uninterrupted quiet time to read. I haven't had time to read in three and a half years. There has always been a child climbing into my lap, a husband chatting my ear off like a Pixi Stick High schoolgirl, or there's that nagging pile of dishes that despite my best efforts (you know, like washing them twice a week) remains in my sink. And on my counters. And on end tables. And on my desk. I think I have a problem.

So I was damn near giddy when I got all my quarters loaded, detergent dispersed and the thump-thump-thump of washers was a beautiful white noise to accompany my headfirst dive into "Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy)", Dooce's compilation of essays from our fellow bloggers. I made it a little over halfway through the book and discovered that there are some funny-ass people out there whose blogs I've been missing out on. I tend to read the smaller blogs, the mediocre blogs. Gotta support us little people!

At any rate, I wrapped up my laundry and, feeling fresh as a daisy on a spring morning, headed back to the zoo my domicile. I had a spring in my step, a smile in my heart and a clear head for the first time in weeks. It's about 5:20 p.m. when I arrive on our stoop. I open the door and there's two noisy kids (Boy had fallen asleep in the play room) and one grumpy-as-all-hell husband.

Sigh.

My sunshiny mood drifted away like a trailer in a tornado.

You see, my husband is a creature of habit. He likes to stick to the same schedule during the week and a typical day goes like this: Wife wakes up and makes breakfast, I go to the bathroom, Wife gets my clothes together for me, Wife packs my lunch and makes sure I'm all set to head out the door. I leave. I come home. Wife has dinner ready by 5:00 p.m., no later than 5:15 p.m. usually. The evening schedule varies. But up through dinner it's pretty uniform and any deviation results in total bitchiness. From him.

[Don't get me wrong. I'm a stay-at-home mom and I'm happy to do these things. I volunteer it. I also don't like him cooking in my kitchen because he will inevitably leave the mess for me to clean up.]

Now he's a self-sufficient guy in most areas. If I'm not around to get his clothes ready, he can most certainly dress himself. He doesn't need me to gather his work stuff and on many an occasion he's done his own gathering. But I'm pretty sure that one of two things would happen if he had to make his own food: the world would come crashing down around him or he'd simply keel over and die.

So when I'm at the laundromat and he's (as I roll my eyes) starving, do you think this man could mosey into the kitchen and grab up a quick snack? Especially when I told him before I left exactly what there was to nibble on before I got home to make dinner and even told him where he could find it? Nope. Not a chance in hell. He'll sit there and stew and fester and get all kinds of bitchy because dinner's not ready.

Men - or rather, men with wives who are just done with listening to hungry, helpless husbands - will not survive the apocalypse. Women will. Children will - because as mothers, we'll see to it that they're fed. Pets will because again, they're our job too. But men? They'll be the hatchlings you see in trees. Heads back, mouths open, waiting for their piece of the worm. They don't want any part of pulling the worm out of the ground or making one small nightcrawler feed four mouths over a week. They just want the worm. By 5:15 p.m.