August 20, 2009
Originally PUBLISHED January 05, 2005
Here is a column I wrote for The Effingham County Herald on August 28, 1996. It's one of the last pieces they published before they dropped me for offending too many people. Calling my wife "the Underwear Fairy" really DID chap a lot of asses.
Believe it or not (I still don't), I caught a lot of flack from a lot of people after I referred to my darling wife as "The Underwear Fairy" in a recent column. I studiously analyzed all the flack and concluded that anyone who griped about that column was totally deranged, probably from wearing dirty underwear.
Just because I have an Underwear Fairy to wash my drawers doesn't mean that I sprawl on the counch all day like some kind of chauvinist potato while my darling wife waits on me hand and foot. I suggested that arrangement when we first married, but she countered by suggesting that I perform an anatomically impossible act upon myself, so I dropped that idea like a hot rock in the spirit of compromise.
We share most of the household chores on an equal basis. For example, I do all the cooking and she cleans up the mess I make. I am charge of trash disposal, yard maintenance and vermin control, and she doesn't run me off even when I behave like a species of vermin. I give her my paycheck and she spends it.
We also have very distinct roles when it comes to assembling something that we bought unassembled. This sort of stuff always comes in a box, filled with a gazillion oddly-shaped pieces and a set of indecipherable instructions written by a demented foreign sadist in what appears to be his native tongue.
I always dump the contents of the box on the floor, study the instructions, examine all the oddly-shaped parts and immediately decide that there is no way under the sun that anyone could EVER make that pile of parts resemble anything even remotely like the picture on the box. Then, I gather the proper tools and spend about an hour proving my theory correct.
That's when I stomp off to fetch chainsaw and shotgun to perform an exorcism on that misbegotten spawn of Satan. My darling wife comes to my rescue then, talking me back down to earth and pacifying me with a Klondike Bar. Once I am in harmless mode, she sits down and puts the whole thing together, just like the picture on the box, in about the same amount of time it takes me to eat the Klondike Bar.
I hate it when she does that, because it offends every primitive, prehistoric, hunter-gatherer instinct I have about who should sit on the floor of the cave and play successfully with tools.
But it's a good thing she does it. Otherwise, the house and yard would be littered with the chain-sawed, shotgunned remains from the totally justified exorcisms of diabolical demons that attempted to enter my home disguised as swing sets, barbecue grills, wheelbarrows, home entertainment centers, snap-together shelf units and even my son's kiddie bed.
Yes, I can set aside my male ego and remain totally secure while my darling wife plays with tools in the cave. Especially when one of those tools is the washing machine.
That's where she performs exorcisms on my underwear.
Pretty damned offensive, isn't it?
All content © Rob Smith