So tonight, the Sweet Babboo asks me where the can opener is. I say, from my chair in the office, that I used it last night. Other than that, I couldn't say. He calls out from the kitchen again, "Can't find it!"... I say, " I don't know what to tell ya." A minute passes. "Can't find it!" I walk into the kitchen, open the dishwasher with its clean dishes. Bottom rack, silverware basket, can opener.
I hand it to him, and he says, "It's not my fault." Because that's what men say.
I reply, "I asked my womb. I said, 'Womb? Where's the can opener?'" and it told me.
In the warehouse this morning, I'm doing my thing, feeling the Monday grumpies, and wouldn't you know? The warehouse folks have put their crap on the transportation dock again. Or, more the the point, the men of the warehouse have. I ask Y-chromosomed coworker about the mess, and he says he didn't do it. To him, that's all that matters.
Thank God, the X-empowered coworker came along. She doesn't care who put the crap on our dock. Within 10 minutes, she's got the docks clear and the X-challenged working on working the trash compactor, clearing up boxes, putting things where they belong and generally just making order of the chaos.
So how is it men overwhelmingly outnumber women in jobs like ours?