Tag Archives: 1950’s

Honey, There’s a BUG

26 Apr

I opened the door to kiss my man goodbye, and in crawls the most massive spider I’ve ever seen. I try to handle it, but instead I say forget it, throwing out all the feminist, equal gender-roled ideas I’ve ever had. “Justin, get it!” But he calmly said, “You can handle it.”

And I thought, good point, I’m being silly. And such a GIRL! Get it together. So I put on my pink Skechers and stomped on it. Hard. And then it kept moving, well more like lurching, at me. So I stomped it again. Much to my surprise, out came five more tiny little spiders–all freaking out. Now I’d really done it. Not only had I acted like a little girl, I had also killed a pregnant mother. Perfect.

The whole incident made me stop and think: Shouldn’t I kill my own bugs from now on? My Skechers work as well (usually) as his size 13 boots. It’s not that I was raised to be squeamish either–the last time I saw my mother kill a spider she just grabbed it and smooshed it in her hand. Sick. Gutsy, but sick.

The bigger question is not who kills the spiders, but who does the dirty work–the traditional “man” work. The answer is, for me at least, we both do, with a few exceptions. I am learning, slowly, to pick which exceptions those are; which 1950’s conventions were stupid, oppressive, and ridiculous, and which kind of made sense. I’m not saying I am to cook and clean and he is to bring home the bread and throw his feet up. I’m simply saying that some things, like spider killing, will never be my forte. And some things, like rearranging the vase collection, will never interest him. That’s just biology, regardless of whether it’s the year 1950 or 2050. Boys like playing with bugs. I don’t.

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