Women needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle

“A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle” said Gloria Steinem (she was quoting Irina Dunn).  For the majority of my singlehood, this was my mantra, my declaration of independence, and my anthem of empowerment as a woman.  It is in this confidence and delusional state of mind, I encouraged my husband to go to Tahoe with some friends while I stayed behind with our two kids for the weekend. 

Everything went smoothly on the first day.  I took the kids to the farmer’s market, we played at a local park, went to the library to get some more books and Thomas DVDs.  I fed them, changed them, cleaned them, and entertained them.  First night after the kids were deep in sleep, I sank into my futon, enjoying a glass of wine.  Silence.  I loved it.

The second day also sailed smoothly.  I began to think “single parenting is not that bad.”  One of the things that really irk me is on seldom occasions when I leave the kids with my husband, I came back to a house where dirty dishes, messy rooms, and scattered laundry is “justified” because “I was too busy watching the kids”.  At times, I even dreaded going out because I knew I would come back to more work, staying up even later to clean up, and be more tired afterwards.  This weekend, I wanted to set an example.  I wanted to show him how to solo-parent while managing the house as well.  I needed to raise the bar.

After the kids went to bed, I began to chop, steam, sauté what felt like a month’s worth of food.  I started the laundry, started the dish washer.  Feeling really proud of myself, I began to clean the counter top, and even started mopping the floor.  All was going well.  It was past midnight and after I was done with cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry and showering, I was spent.   I loved going to sleep knowing that my house, specifically my kitchen, was sparkling.  I crawled under my fluffy comforter and closed my eyes.

But, something was not right.  I went around and made sure all the doors and windows were locked.  I came back to the kitchen to see if the dishwasher was done.  That’s when I saw my kitchen sink, completely clogged, and the yucky water kept on rising slowly. 

They say traumatic memories are remembered by not only your brain, but by all of your senses.  Some of you might remember my incidence with a clogged toilet.  Plumbing has never been my forte.  I froze.  I was alone in the house, and it was past midnight.  My husband wasn't scheduled to come home for at least another 16 hours.  I turned on the garbage disposal- no luck.  I tried to clear out all the vegetable peels and scraps of meat in the sink.  Still no luck.  I tried to think clearly.  Unfortunately, thinking clearly at 12:30 AM is like asking a sleep walking man to fill out his taxes.  I began to search the house frantically for a plunger.  No time to read the kitchen sink instruction.  No time to google.  I had to do something and do it fast.

I grabbed the plunger from the master bathroom, and ran back to the kitchen.  The thought of putting in a plunger which I assume was used for toilets previously, into my kitchen sink worried me.  But I didn’t have the time to sanitize my plunger.  Brushing off all other hesitations, I began to “plunge” my clogged sink.  At first, I was very careful.  But soon I realized I was not solving the problem.  I began to push up and down the plunger, like a mad person.  That's when I encountered "it".  

"It" totally, completely caught me by surprise and "it" shot up to my ceiling and landed on my hair.   "It" shot up, from the tiny silver knob next to my kitchen faucet, which I've never noticed before this moment.  "It" was my private Old Faithful, my geyser of filthy, muggy kitchen sink water, filled with old carrot peels, meat scraps and other questionable things.   My exhausted brain barely figured out that there was a cause and effect.  Harder I plunged, higher my geyser. My geyser shot up once, twice, then again and again every time I pushed down the plunger. I was in my own nightmare.

I wish I didn't have to end this story with me staying up for another 2 hours of cleaning, sanitizing, and showering...again.  I wish I didn't have to go to sleep at 3 am, only to get up at 5 am to nurse my baby.  But let me tell you, by the time my husband came back on Sunday afternoon, I nearly leapt into his arms, and felt so thankful that I don't have to hold the plunger again. 

A woman needs a man, like a fish needs a bicycle?  Obviously, Gloria Steinem was perfectly ok with taking care of her own plumbing issues or she knew a female professional plumber somewhere.  But today, I find it completely liberating to say - I AM MOST DEFINITELY PLUMBING CHALLENGED AND I OUTSOURCE ALL THINGS PLUMBING TO MY HUSBAND.