“That tasted odd,” I thought as I chewed and swallowed my daily vitamin. I turned the bottle around to read the label, which said, “Macho Man High Potency Vitamins for real men.” Uh-oh. Oh, well, a vitamin’s a vitamin, right? Anyway, I’m out of mine.

I’m happy to say that it didn’t seem to affect me in any way. As a matter of fact, I’ve never felt better, although I seem to have forgotten how to replace the soap in the shower or that empty toilet paper roll.

When I got home from work that evening, I kicked open the door and bellowed, “Honey, I’m home! What’s for dinner? How about a big bloody steak and a cold beer?”

“You know I don’t know how to cook,” said my puzzled husband. “And since when do you drink beer?”

“Since I found out how well it goes with these Cuban cigars,” I said as I bit off the end and spit it across the room. “Anyway, I like smashing the empty cans on my forehead. Now hustle on out there, Babe, and get that steak started,” I said, giving him a hearty and affectionate smack on the backside.

Scratching my bare belly and belching loudly, I leaned back in my recliner, popped up the footrest, and picked up the remote control. Holding the button down, I continually scanned up and down the channels several times, pausing only on fishing shows, drag races, and women’s beach volleyball.

I was trying to let my husband know this isn’t the 1950s anymore, but I don’t think he was amused by my attempt to showcase my perceived inequities of being a woman in today’s world.

“Denise,” he said, “I admire your decision to promote the agenda that no task should be assigned strictly by gender. By the way, the gutters need to be cleaned out.”

“So?”

“So, you’d better get the ladder and clean them out.”

“Me? But you know I’m afraid of heights.”

“Also,” he added, “There’s a dead mouse in the trap under the sink. Get rid of it and reset the trap.”

“Yuk. I’m not touching that! That’s gross! You always take care of that!”

“Also, the car needs an oil change and new rear brakes.”

“But, Honey, I don’t know anything about cars, and I don’t think I want to know!”

“You can find the directions on YouTube.”

“Very funny. Anything else?”

“Yes. I went down to the Army Recruiting Office and signed you up for combat duty. You leave for the front Tuesday. Better start packing.”

“But I can’t go on Tuesday! That’s laundry day,” I protested. I tied a ruffled apron over my modest housedress, slipped into my high heels, and adjusted my pearls. “Now scoot on out of my kitchen, Ward, and tell Wally and Beaver that supper will be ready in a jiffy. And don’t forget to call your mother and wish her happy birthday. You got her a sweater and a box of candy. I wrapped it and signed your name to the card.”

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