Dumpster-Dancer

Bad was turning worse. My sweet J was heading for full domestic revolt. The more our old house-guest complimented J in the kitchen, the less she wanted to be there. The less J wanted to cook the more over the top the guest's compliments and appreciation became. #Domestic_Oppression

All that would have been fine. Nothing in our marriage makes J the Designated Kitchen Gnome. The thing is, she actually likes to cook and he was stealing that pleasure from her.

We'd been grappling with the conundrum of how the kind words, sweet compliments and helpful hands of our house guest had managed to make every woman in his life feel oppressed in the kitchen. #Domestic_Oppression

I finally drew a line in the sand. “If you don't stop making J feel pressured in the kitchen, you're on your own for food.”

He was indignant; “But what am I doing wrong?” “I never complain.” “I try to be helpful.” “I'm appreciative.”

I was adamant; “Just shut up about the food. If you like it, eat it. If you don't, leave it.”

“But how does saying nice things about the food make J feel pressured?”

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During the military draft days, Army chow hall food often sucked. The least qualified draftees got sent to Cook's School. The most ambitious of those would get out of the Army after 3 years to pursue a career in the burgeoning new fast food industry. Those who didn't have the ambition or brains to flip burgers at one of the new McDonalds would often re-enlist and eventually be promoted to Mess Sergeant and be placed in charge of a chow hall.

Scut labor came from unlucky Privates. The Army punished minor infractions with “KP (Kitchen Police) Duty” in the chow hall. KP Duty meant interminable, exhausting days of peeling potatoes, cleaning grease traps, and slopping food into trays and scrubbing.

In his glory days, he had been Army . . . and in those days he had figured out how to get great chow from the crappy chow hall. He made a point of complimenting the grouchy Mess Sergeant whenever possible. In a thankless job feeding thousands, the brief compliments were appreciated. In time the cranky Mess Sergeant softened toward the young version of our house guest, and then started improving things at his suggestions.

So, as a young man our house guest had figured out how to manipulate a crusty under-appreciated Mess Sergeant and now, almost a century later, he was using the same tactic to try to wheedle better slop out of my sweet J.

The thing is, J cooks out of love, not because she has to. She's not a Mess Sergeant drafted to feed the Cold Warriors, She's a classic woman she lives to please. We had peacocks once. A big, stupid, noisy bird, somehow landed on our porch. We put out some food and pretty soon he moved in. We named him Iris. J felt sorry for Iris, so she searched Craigslist to find him a mate. We drove counties away to bring home Amanda, a feisty Peahen. Soon they made Peachicks. J, always considerate, observed that Iris and Amanda and the little ones liked cilantro and cockroaches. J delighted in buyer expensive sacks of the spicy Mexican herb for our avian guests. She was more than happy to roll heavy flower pots aside so they could scarf up the yummy roaches that scurried in the light.

The Peafoul didn't need to manipulate J to perform these acts of kindness. She wasn't like the cranky Army Mess Sergeant. All J needed was she slightest hint of a preference and she would work herself weary to please.

Our old house guest just couldn't get that J wasn't the Mess Sergeant. He weighed J with so many manipulative compliments that she shut down on him and dreaded the meals that she once loved to prepare.

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I finally found a tactic to restore domestic harmony. I used the Army mess hall analogy to get our guest to change his behavior. I reminded him that soldiers never praise any of the KP privates. Any soldier trying to wheedle with; “Wow! You peel potatoes so incredibly smoothly,” or “Gee, you mop the floor so efficiently,” would get a potato shoved down his throat and a mop up his ass.

It was so simple. I just explained to him. I'm the Mess Sergeant. I own the kitchen. I am responsible for everything that happens or fails to happen therein. If J is in the kitchen, she's either on her own time or she's on KP Duty. Don't fuck with someone off duty volunteering and Don't fuck with the KP Person.

That worked.

But it's bigger than that. I think we men need to own our homes. It's not the wife's “job” to cook and clean for us. It's our job to head our families. It's our job to listen carefully and decide wisely how to allocate the resources we are blessed with.