The testosterone equation

There are times I wish I was a man:

When there isn’t a rest stop in sight and I need to pee.

When I want to put my fist in someone’s face.

When I need to take my car to the mechanic.

When… oh hell, that’s about it.

There are times when I grateful beyond measure that I am a woman (hear me roar!). 

Testosterone must be a terrible challenge to live with. Outnumbered by men in my home I am starting to accept that living with testosterone is a biological hazard. 

Once that man switch gets flicked there is nothing a woman can do but sit back and watch the situation unfold.

Picture this…

Lightning splits the sky. 

A curtain of rain falls to earth. 

Men scramble through the mud to the safety of their cars. 

Simultaneously they all edge towards the exit. 

The switch is flicked. 

It is not about getting home anymore. 

It is war. 

It is about being first – no matter what. 

The field on which they parked now turned into an ancient battlefield where man takes on man in a primordial battle for supremacy. 

It is every man for himself. 

Women and children sit mute as their alpha males enter the fray.

It was about now that my husband decided that he would rather die than let the Toyota Landcruiser take the forward position. 

Me: “Darling. He’s already driven over two traffic cones. I don’t think he is in a very good mood. Perhaps we should allow him to go first?”

Him: “No! I refuse. I was here first and I’ll be damned if I let him in.”

I shut up, regarding it as the most prudent course of action. About, oh, 30 seconds later the Landcruiser driver rammed into the back of our compact little Ford. Then he reversed and rammed us again. I started to pray.

Husband: “I’m getting out.”

Me in tones of pure ice: “No, you are not. I told you he was not in a good mood. I have his registration. Just let it go.”

Husband opening door: “I’m going to take his picture!”

Me: “By all means, if getting a fist in your face is how you’d like this evening to end. And once we are home, I’ll knee you in the balls for being a stupid idiot. Let. It. Go.”

Did I mention my mother was in the car? No? Well she was. Awkward much? We tried, we really did, not to take the piss. We failed.

Halfway home, my husband is ready to turn the car around and scour the streets for the Toyota driving maniac. By now he has convinced himself that he has let himself down as a man. A real man would have got out of the car and indulged in a bit of old fashioned mud wrestling. 

That was three days ago. Each morning at the school he eyes each Toyota Landcruiser with an Attila the Hun type of gleam in his eye.

Him: “Is that it? Was that him?”

Me: “No.”

Silence

Me: “What are you doing to do if you find him exactly?”

Him: “I’ll key his bloody car, that’s what I’ll do.”

Me: “Wasn’t it you who once told me that two wrongs don’t make a right?”

Him: “It’s not about bloody right and wrong. It’s about satisfaction. God! Don’t you understand men at all?”

Apparently not.

The Boobs, the Businessmen and the Balls

I have come to the conclusion that overt sexism by boorish pigs is preferable to the subtle nuances of discrimination that colour the words and actions of metrosexuals. It’s the unintentional sexism that sticks in my craw.

I’m not talking about a man being sweet enough to open a door for me or offer to pour me a drink. I’m not going to turn down an offer an umbrella in the driving rain either. I appreciate these gestures in the spirit of chivalry in which they are offered. I am humbled and absurdly flattered at these.

What gets me all hot under the collar and ready to get out my bic and set my bra on fire are the men who don’t even realise they are being sexist. They would never define themselves in those terms. They think women are fabulous, of course they deserve equal rights and after all, some of their best friends are women.

So, why do they direct a business conversation at the male party? Why do they assume that my gender makes me somehow less capable or my experience less valuable? When I get up from the table, suddenly they get all business oriented and keen, but my very female presence seems to detract from the professionalism of the environment.

When this company gets off the ground it will start as it means to continue and not discriminate on the basis of race, gender, religion, marital status or existence of children. I know women who have got up and walked out of interviews when asked whether or not they plan to have children. Trust me, if you can handle a child and a career you know more about effective time management and prioritising than anyone.

By the way, as a wife or as a business partner I am in no way inferior because I can fall pregnant. My position in either relationship is of an individual in a team. I am not there to make tea or small talk. I am just as serious and ambitious as any man. I’m not going to cry or explode in a hormonal tsunami, but I will cut you down if you put me down.

There seems to be a feeling that if you are married and in business together you form some of sort of unit, like conjoined twins. Does this mean I can pay a married couple less than two single people? I don’t think this would fly at the CCMA. I don’t think that either partner’s contribution to a company is less simply because they wear matching jewellery.

As for the “Mom and Pop Shop” commentary: Pick ‘n Pay, the Oppenheimers, Ikea... should I go on? What started out as amusing has begun to irritate me immensely. People ask if we can work together. What on earth do they think we’ve doing for the last 14 years? We’ve faced some incredibly tough challenges and surmounted every single one. Not many business partnerships last that long or marriages for that matter.

The most frustrating thing is that I have let it get to me. For the first time in my life and career I am starting to question myself, allowing other people to erode my confidence on the basis of... breasts. They aren’t doing it to me, I’m doing to myself and that is at the core of this tirade. Why do I let it get to me when they smile gently and indulgently at me then turn to my male business partner? I’ve sat through meetings gritting my teeth as I get more and more irate, and not even a blind man could miss the blood dripping from my fangs. I’ve stopped going to many of the meetings, because more seems to happen without me being there and more honestly, my self-esteem has been badly shaken.

How insane is that?
I guess I better grow me some balls!

The rat and the Man

The Rat. That was the title of a book my mother brought home from the library for her 6-year-old daughter. It had won awards and was lauded for its brilliance. It was terrifying. A little boy draws a picture of a big black rat with glowing red eyes in his school art class. Night after night he can hear scratching and squeaking. In his nightmares it hunts him, it’s eyes a beacon of horror. I can’t remember how he defeated the rat; surely it must have had a happy ending. What I do recall is the fear and desperation as he tried to outrun the monster he had created.

I have hated rats ever since and that feeling was only compounded by the Rats of Nimh and the Black Plague. I hate their scaly tails, their skittering little paws and the horrible intelligence in their eyes. I can easily believe they knew what they doing offering transportation and logistics to the parasites that caused the Plague.

I am not so much afraid of them, as completely repulsed by their very existence. When a close friend began to carry around a black hooded rodent on her shoulder, I can honestly say our friendship waned. After I almost caused a multiple car pileup on the highway when it stuck it’s little face out of her hair and after that she couldn’t forgive me for my prejudice.

They probably perform some crucial ecosystem function, but I’d just prefer it if they did it somewhere else. Specifically not in my kitchen! I am currently landlady to a rodent who took up residence behind my washing machine last evening. Not to be cowed I recovered from my glimpse of it streaking across the floor and called Small boy aged 9 to the front.

“Right,” said I with confidence, “What I need you to do is open the back kitchen door.”
“Why?” asked Small boy aged 9 with fascination.
“We need some air,” said I breezily despite the arctic conditions outside.
“Why are you sitting on the counter?”
“Just open the door.”
“Cool Mom, there’s a mouse! Can I give it some cheese?”
“No,” voice now rising to a shriek, “Get it out!”

It might be a mouse. I can’t tell the difference. I reminded myself of one of the primary reasons women get married in the first place and promptly called the Man of the House who is happily ensconced in warmth and tropical splendour in Mozambique.

“What on earth do you want me do about it?” ejaculated Man.
“Tell me what to do?” shrieks wife.
“Put a bowl or something on it?” suggests Man.
“Do you know how close I have to be to it to do that? Are you insane?”
“Probably,” Mutters Man “Give the phone to Small Boy aged 9.”
Small Boy aged 9, “Dad! Dad, it’s so cool, there’s a mouse in the kitchen, but Mom won’t let me feed it cheese.” Pause, “No, it’s really small, but Mom’s going on about it like it’s the size of the dog.”
Traitor. Who cares what size it is? It’s there, is that not enough?

Left to my own devices I built a wall of Lego boxes, ice cream containers and assorted Tupperware between it and me. I opened the door and left a trail of apple and bread leading into the wilderness beyond. And then I went to bed and dreamed. I dreamt of rats, huge salivating rats raising families the size of the Sicilian Mafia. It was not a good night and I ended up sleeping with Small Boy aged 6 for comfort and protection.

I have no idea if it is still there. The food is gone, but that could be the dogs who have lost interest in the small furry mammal they’ve introduced into my existence. My cats are too damn pampered and aloof to do anything so banal as catch a rodent. It is far too beneath them. Aside from which as little as I want to deal with a live rat, I want to deal with its corpse even less. Small Boy aged 6 suggested using karate on it and if that fails stomping on it. Yuck, yuck, yukkity yuk!