My mother set the clothes-iron down, yawned, and stretched.  She had to be up early the next day.  It was late and she was tired.  I’d finished the Sunday dinner dishes and promptly beached myself on the couch, perfecting the art of corpulent lolling before heading off to work.
Some people think that’s that weird – wake up, drive to your parents’ house, and gorge on kielbasa, pierogies, and haluski for morning chow, but I…


Listen here, you insensitive bigot – thinking it’s “weird” is shaming language!  Attempting to marginalize a certain ruggedly handsome Night Shift Worker like that is hateful and wrong.  You ignorant daywalkers need your noses rubbed in your Circadian Privilege until I decide you’re tolerant enough.

And stop interrupting me.  It’s emotionally abusive.

As I was saying:

I stood, yawned myself, and patted down my pockets, feeling for all my gear.  Leaving one’s trauma shears or stethoscope under your mother’s couch cushions is considered poor form in emergency medicine.  Satisfied with the state of my pockets, I hugged my mom goodbye, and admonished her to get some sleep.

“I will, as soon as I’ve ironed your father’s clothes.”

“They look fine, mom,” I said.  “You’re tired.  Just go to bed.”

She became stock-still.  I started wondering about pettit-mal siezures or some bizarre new type of paralysis…and then her head rotated slowly toward me, like an old T-55 turret with bad hydraulics…inexorably…she elevated her nose 20 degrees and fired:

“I will not let Your Father go to work without well-pressed clothes!  I know he likes looking sharp.  It makes him feel good!”  The iron burblehissed smug accompaniment.

My dad hasn’t touched an iron in 40 years.  No shit.  A vicious, oppressive Pillar of Patriarchy, that dude.  Gangsta.

You know what that entitled oppressor of all Womyn was doing while me and my mom were having that conversation?  As soon as he saw his wife pull out the iron, he told me goodbye (that’s what “Don’t be late for work, boy,” means in our native language) – and went to put gas in her car.  He was trying to save her some time in the morning.

My dad doesn’t worry about a lot of stuff.  He’s always got clean laundry, neatly ironed or folded.  If he wants to bring a lunch to work, it’s made and waiting in the fridge for him when he leaves.  He only cooks when he wants to.  If he even whiffs of tense, the ol’ guy’s getting a neck massage.

My mom, on the other hand, probably can’t even sketch a recognizable lawnmower.  She mentions that she would like the family room painted a certain color, and within days I’m helping my dad move furniture and mask off windows.  An offhand comment like,”My computer is kinda slow…hmmm…” and her laptop is gone over with a fine-toothed comb by her computer-guy husband.  If she comments about beautiful scenery in a movie they’re watching, or an interesting place she’s read about, he hustles some side jobs. The extra money gets transmogrified into a vacation so she can see it in person.

When we get together, I am inevitably bullied into looking at their vacation photos.  In them, my mom often reminds me of a happy little girl, looking wide-eyed at interesting surroundings.  My dad is always beaming at her.  There are an inordinate amount of pictures with her resting her head on his shoulder.  Maybe her cervical spine is deformed, and she’s never told me or something.

They aren’t perfect, but they’re in love.  They bust their asses for each other.  Their lives are much better for it.  As a young child, I took that devotion to roles for granted.  As a teenager, I thought it creepy.  Today, I find it a thing of amazement and awe.

And terribly rare.


12 thoughts on “Patriarchy

  1. I share your sense of awe, that’s a lovely testimonial.

    Dogsquat, dude, why didn’t you tell me you started a blog???!!!

    Congrats, onto the Roll you go.

    • Holy shit.

      I didn’t tell you yet because I was still tweaking stuff and wanted to get some more posts up. I must have accidentally made it public.

      I pledge here and now to make precisely zero premature ejaculation jokes for the next 15 minutes.

      Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for the link!

  2. Congrats on the site, Dogsquat, well overdue. I’m not your target market, but I do have an appreciation for your insight and writing style.

    I can relate to the good relationship you had with your parents, the mutual sharing of work duties rings a chord, a long work of compromise and appreciation for the strengths of a partner. My parents are still together, but getting older and not as capable of sharing equally, and my Dad steps up to carry the laundry up the stairs, which my Mom can no longer do. They don’t have as easy of a relationship as your parents, I think my Mom was infected by some feminism at an early age, a response to some life experiences. They have moments of that affection gaze, especially recent scares in the hospital. But there are times when I need to invite my Dad over for some decompression while we watch a movie, and talk about life. She still causes him stresses, and he has a tough time dealing with her emotional side.

    But, by god, they stuck it out.

    It takes character to overcome our impulses to just see if the grass is greener elsewhere. I am glad my parents had enough to stick it out with 4 boys, and very little planning, and not much money.

    Sometimes, I think a society where instant gratification is the norm, we forget that the hardest struggles bring the richest rewards.

    Congrats again on the site. After all the years I have read your words as HUS (Hi Susan!), I figured I owe you some comments, quality be damned.

    • Yeah, my folks are a good fit for each other. Their relationship hasn’t always been perfect, but they’re both hard workers and genuinely respect each other. My dad’s just an all around Good Dude, and my mom’s family sucks. She’s seen some pretty shitty male behavior, and knows how bad things can be. With all her perspective, she’s given me the worst advice about women I’ve ever had.

      • “With all her perspective, she’s given me the worst advice about women I’ve ever had.”

        That right there rings so truthful.

        My Dad was the bad boy. He smoked cigarettes and hung with a rough crew. He rebuilt and raced motor cars (often illegally on back roads!). He was quiet, but honest, strong, and a true good man, but a hellraiser when he was young. My mom fell for him, and she got pregnant, and they got married. My Dad was not well equipt to deal with marriage, as he had been pampered most of his life by his mother. Of course, my Mom was damaged goods due to real physical and emotional abuse from her father. Mom set out to remake some men that the world would be proud of, but really didn’t understand that while my Dad made me alpha in every other aspect of life, my mom crippled me for life by making me a thoughtful, respectful gentleman who always put women first. It was hammered into my head that you don’t make fun of women, you don’t hit them, you don’t disrespect them, and the man who does is dishonorable and not to be emulated. Plus, being a big guy, fast, and mentally ordered for no bullshit, I was constantly made hyper aware of how intimidating that was to women, and so I suppressed myself around women, always being kind, forgiving, and generous.

        Of course, reality sets in. Working in the club, the three different attempted nut shots by three different lesbians started me rethinking my “hands off” policy for aggressive women. Being used as an emotional tampon and placed in the LJBF category got old, and started deeper thinking about that. Being used to scare off the old boyfriend, while being leeched off until she could find a new guy to abuse her (I was too nice!) awakened me to more of women’s true nature. Being used for dates, rides, moving, construction, car repair all were standard fare with no sex. I could approach any women I found sexually attractive, and almost immediately get the friend effect. I learned what I was doing wrong (making them feel comfortable, second nature to me), which was an eye opener as well.

        For a long time, I felt like I got dealt a lot of bad information. I can’t really talk to my Mom about it, she gets defensive and doesn’t even recognize how her life choices conflict with the information she gave me, and of course, there is no real way to get her to understand how feminism killed the restraints on female hypergamy, and to understand the current SMP. As I am older now, the “You’ll find a nice girl when you least expect it” and the prompts to “shuck those oysters” have died down, but I can still see she doesn’t understand why I don’t want to settle down with someone. Of course, she doesn’t have to deal with obese sluts dragging around their mistakes from other men. She religious, so she turns to giving me religious advice, which we know doesn’t hold much weight with women these days, unless the lessons are feminized.

        I am glad I had time with my parents to resolve a lot of issues. I appreciate the wisdom they have gained. I treasure them, take care of them, flaws and all, because that is the nature of love to me.

  3. Found you via hooking up smart this morning.. you are definitely going on my regular reading list.. you really made me laugh.. which a male hasn’t done for awhile.. so thank you..
    Oh & in relation to a comment below.. define slut? I mean I get some women’s password for their vagina is.. well.. password. But I’m single for the first time in 8 years (a string of long term relationships) & have never had a one night stand.. which I reckon I would like to try at least once.. but well I don’t want to be in a relationship for a long while.. I distinctly need me time but I also have a very high sex drive but don’t want to have a pile of one night stands under my belt.. sigh.. advice?

    • white mallow:

      Who is a slut is difficult to define.

      A few say n>1 = slut. I don’t agree with that.

      Some say n>20 = slut. I think I do agree with that. A woman who has voluntarily admitted more than 20 different strange cocks into one of her orifices is gettin’ around, as they used to say back in the day.

      Some say a slut can reform if she stops sleeping with men she has no commitment to, among other things. I agree, but it’s very difficult and is more work than most want to do or can do.

      I think that the number is important, but how you got that number is important too. A string of LTRs would worry me only because I wonder why the girl can’t seem to stay with one man and lock him down. Something’s wrong somewhere. Maybe she is a poor judge of character and selects men who aren’t willing or able to commit. She isn’t looking in the right places or at the right kinds of men. Or maybe she has low self esteem and gives herself up to these guys and stays until she can’t take it anymore. Or maybe these are great guys she’s getting with, and she is the problem because she’s
      –an attention whore
      –a status whore
      –batshit crazy
      –a career first girl who works first and everything else comes second
      –terribly insecure
      –unable or unwilling to figure out what she wants
      –unable or unwilling to commit to a course of action
      –a snowflake
      –a selfish bitch

      But a smattering of LTRs with a heaping helping of ONSs worries me more. That shows poor impulse control, possible addictive behavior, and a complete inability or unwillingness to commit to anything for more than a few hours.

      Also, a girl who I know gave it up to bad boys and douchebags she met a few hours before; but she’s gonna make me wait? That’s a big no-no. I’ll have what she gave the other guys, thanks very much. And if she’s not willing to serve it up and that right soon, then I’d say thanks for her time and I’ll be on my way.

      Hope this helps.

    • white:

      Now don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against girls who don’t want to marry, or who want to work, or who want to sleep with alpha dickbags, or whose standards are in the stratosphere, or whatever. You just don’t get to have your cake and eat it too.

      I have nothing against career first girls. You want to work and make your own money and get material success? I’m all for it. Just don’t complain when you are 34 and up for partner and trying to impress your bosses and trying the 16th case of your career and your BMW is in the shop and the radio in the loaner Lexus doesn’t work and you’re working your 23rd straight day in the office and your bio clock is roaring in your ears like a freight train and the only men who will consider you are 45 year old divorced men with kids of their own and then only for pump and dumps; or 40 year old never married men with, um, ISSUES of their own. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

      I have nothing against sluts. You want to boink alphas for shits and giggles, for bragging rights, or to get your rocks off? I’m good with that. Sluts are good to go, good for a fun time. (They’re kind of like amusement park rides — fun to ride for a weekend, but impossible and undesirable to own because they would drive the property values down.) Sluts, don’t complain when your time on the carousel draws to a close and you can’t pull the hot dudes you used to bang. (You always knew this day of reckoning was coming.) Don’t complain when the men you used to laugh at and nuke-reject now make you — and your cats — the laughingstock at age 28. Don’t complain when your hard partying and all-nighters bring The Wall ever closer and ever sooner. Don’t complain when you’re judged ineligible for marriage by even beta men. Don’t complain when the best you can pull as a 39 year old cougar is a 22 year old beta college student, SMV 6 at best, who can’t afford to take you to McDonald’s and who’s just deliriously elated he’s going to get his cock into anything. And don’t complain when it all catches up to you and the fun gives way to lifetime prescriptions for acyclovir or Valtrex or annual pap smears. No cure for the Herp or HPV — just management by medication and hope for the best. Any future sex partners have to be apprised, or you could open yourself up to legal liability for infecting partners without telling them. My dear, that chicken has come home to roost for good. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

      I have nothing against holier than thou Christian girls whose standards for men are so mind-bendingly unreasonable that only Jesus Himself could meet them (not that He’d want to). You want to put on airs of a faux virginity or “born again” virginity? Fine. Don’t complain when a parade of good, eligible, marriageable men pass on by and stop trying with you because you’re completely unrealistic and candidly not worth the hassle. Don’t complain when you finally give up your virginity to a jaw droppingly good looking worship leader at church camp in the hopes of a relationship with a “Christian alpha”, only to find out he’s done the same thing with 17 girls before you. Don’t complain when your girlfriends, your “sisters in Christ”, sabotage your efforts with men. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.

  4. My folks had just about the worst marriage I can think of, growing up. Just two desperately uncomfortable people manacled together, dirt poor & three kids to provide for. I used to wonder why they stayed with each other, what the hell was holding that sad, sorry, sexless union together other than convenience, habit & duty.

    Now, years later, they’re old & grey, & my dad’s going through throat cancer, my mum driving him a couple of hours to the city & back every single day the past month & a half for chemo & radiation therapy. And yet it would never occur to either of them to do otherwise. They don’t share the same blood, & yet they’re closer than family. And they’re happier together now, the past few years, than I’ve ever seen them, content with & bound to each other in a way that in this age amazes me. They have grown to be one flesh, just like the marriage vows said.

  5. Marriage is hard work, no doubt about that, Sgt. Thing is, it doesn’t FEEL like work, when you understand that some things are better done by one or the other spouse. My wife knows more about cooking than most professional chefs… just because it’s ‘traditional’ does not mean it’s wrong. I know a lot about computers, gardening, horses and those are the things I do. Hell, I’ve got about five acres under cultivation for vegetables and flowers… and my wife loves the fresh veggies and roses, but she can’t do anything but turn on the sprinklers.

    And if that bothers the feminists or anyone, screw ’em, I say. It works. If some women refuse to cook or clean house because of feminist tendencies, tell their cats hello from me.

    The Navy Corpsman

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