What happens when you lack gender stereotypes

In the spirit of being the tyrannical dictator of this blog, I’m going to use it to spew my own propaganda today with a completely one-sided look at an issue of contempt chez moi.

The newf, on occasion, will develop an insatiable need to accomplish the work of 300 Spartans in one day. To make matters worse, this usually happens on days when I am exhausted or cuddled up with two puppies and therefore unlikely to move (did I mention that I like Theo much more when he sleeps? Yeah. Yesterday he destroyed my phone case, my Raybans, the newf’s wallet and a baby bird). He will putter around me like one of those robotic vacuum cleaners, silently hoping that I will join in on the action.

And because I am a nice person who has a low tolerance for guilt warfare – I will.

Yesterday, it was, “I’m going to mow our massive yard that I said I was going to mow every day last week but didn’t because it was too wet or too hot or I was too busy watching sci-fi and straight-to-TV movies!”

Since I refuse to be the way he was when I was not working (spewing passive-aggression because I didn’t spend every waking second of my day making the apartment spotless until he inevitably resorted to handing me daily task lists…Insert my brain exploding -> here <-), I simply said, “Sounds good. Enjoy!”

“Want to help?”

“Uhh…I guess?”

“Great! You can rake up the excess grass once it’s mowed! Fun, right??”

No. Not fun. Raking takes about four times longer than mowing and eight times the effort (unless you are filled with self-hate and own a push mower. In that case, I’d rather rake. Either way, my property would be your personal hell). I only offered to help because sometimes all that means is me standing nearby, being adorable and singing the band-aid song. But because I am a fan of teamwork and I do appreciate how much he does for the both of us, I rake knowing full well what is going to happen.

My mind is already revisiting the time he offered to clean my parents’ house from top to bottom, then vacuumed the stairs, rearranged some furniture in the living room, then got too drunk and had to stop, insisting that I finish the rest. It was 11:00 a.m.

As expected, off he runs, deciding on impulse that now – with a partially mowed lawn – is the absolute best time to collapse and bind cardboard boxes.

And so it goes. The newf will spin around the house at dizzying speeds like a crossbreed of the Tasmanian Devil and a cuban maid on cocaine, tiring himself out before adamantly suggesting that I finish the 37 half-completed tasks because, well, look at all the work HE did.

Now, it’s not that he asked for my help that bothers me. It’s the hypocrisy – a disease of which the newf is unlikely to recover (he’s so getting sent to the glue factory). When I wasn’t working, it was all: you must complete these 58 tasks of which 42 must be completed before 8am! Now that he’s not working, it’s all about relaxation time.

I’m not about to place demands on his spare time but let me tell you, if he thinks it’s Ben=Cinderella time when I’m not working but Newf=AnnaNicoleSmith time when he’s off?

Bitch.

Please.