I got the email forward last week. It came from a college buddy who hardly ever forwards anything. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve gotten only one other forward. It depicted really disturbing photos of the bound feet of Chinese women.
I don’t usually open forwards, but I knew this one was going to be good.
I found 10 jpeg files. I hesitated. Then I thought, “She never sends stupid stuff.” I started clicking. The first file showed me a photo of a sexy man holding a bag of garbage, with the caption, “As long as I have legs to walk on, you’ll never have to take out the garbage.”
I thought, “That’s nice. Wish my husband said things like that.” I clicked on the next jpeg. It showed the same man. Now he was behind the wheel of a car. The caption read, “Hold that thought a second. I want to pull over and ask for directions.”
“Ah, too cliché,” I thought, but I didn’t stop clicking. I went right on to the next jpeg.
I saw a photo of a man vacuuming. The caption said, “Porn for women.”
I had a spit-on-my-computer-screen laughing fit. I clicked through the rest of the jpegs. Then I started over and opened each one all over again and, then, I did it again.
And then, something unusual happened. I felt extremely tempted to forward the jpegs to all of the married women in my address book.
But I held back. First, I’m loath to forward anything. Second, I was somewhat suspicious that pressing the forward button would perpetuate a flagrant copyright violation.
So I went to Google. After much sleuthing, I found the Cambridge Women’s Pornography Cooperative’s Web site, and there I found books, wall calendars, postcards, and fantasy coupons for sale with titles such as Porn for Women and Porn for New Moms.
“Well now I know what I’m getting all of my female friends for Christmas,” I thought.
OH, BABY, TURN ME ON
The Cambridge Women’s Pornography Cooperative surveyed women about their biggest turn-ons. As a result, they coined this term:
Choreplay: when a woman gets turned on by the sight of her husband doing household chores that she would normally be doing.
I still wanted to forward but, no, I just couldn’t. I would do the next best thing. I printed the vacuuming photo. Later when Mr. Strong and Silent got home, I showed it to him. He looked at it for a bit. He didn’t laugh so hard that he choked on his spit. He didn’t even smile. Instead, he looked up at me with a “and I’m supposed to have a comment about this?” reaction on his face. He looked down again at the photo for a while longer, assuming that he must have missed an important detail.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I asked.
“Isn’t it sexist? It’s assuming that women do all the vacuuming.”
“Uh yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”
Now, truth be told, I’ve always been able to count on Mr. Strong and Silent doing the vacuuming. He zeroes in on floor lint better than Martha Stewart.
Before you go, “Aw, what a sweet, adorable, sexy man,” you must understand that the vacuum is the only indoor home cleaning device he uses. Case in point: for kicks one day, I wrote my name in the dust on the TV screen. Did it inspire him to pick up a dust rag? Not a chance. He didn’t even notice.
Interestingly, my husband has, since the day I moved in with him, lived in complete denial of this one ever present fact of our couple hood: I do more than twice as much around the house as he does. I know I do more for two reasons:
1) We both work and we both live in the same house. We are both parents the same child. Yet he has time to watch TV, read magazines, shower daily, and tinker with his various bicycles. Me? I rarely have time to shower and, as far as the TV is concerned, the only programming I’m aware of takes place on the Disney channel.
2) Many years ago, I once put a chart on the refrigerator that listed all of the indoor and outdoor chores. For a month, we checked off any chore we accomplished and wrote how long it took. At the end of the month, the math was clear. I did twice as much as he did.
I’m not alone when it comes to an unequal division of the household labor. Whenever I am with any number of female friends and the subject of “husbands” comes up, these are the comments I usually hear:
“I’m convinced he doesn’t even see the dust or the toys all over the floor.”
“Mine doesn’t know how to do the laundry. I mean, he really doesn’t. He doesn’t even know where the washing machine is.”
“Sometimes I just want to throw a toy at his head to get him to pay attention to the kids.”
And these are comments from working mothers, women who are putting just as many hours in at the office as their husbands. They are also comments from women who’d thought—as I’d once thought—that they’d married modern, egalitarian men.
And here’s more. About a year ago, researchers from George Mason University surveyed 17,636 men and women in 28 countries. They determined that married men did less housework than single men. Married women did more housework than everyone, including single women and single men, and way, way more than married men.
Despite all of this evidence, my husband is still quite convinced that he pulls his weight around the house. It’s as if we’re seeing the house and the amount of work involved in its upkeep through two different sets of eyes.
When I look at our house, I see:
• Shoes and toys that must be picked up and put away.
• Dishes that must be washed.
• A dishwasher that must be emptied.
• Clean clothes that must be put away.
• Newspapers that need to be stacked with the recycling.
• A dog that would like to be fed.
• A child who would like to be played with.
• A grocery list that must be dealt with and dinner that needs to be cooked assuming any one of the three members of the household would prefer to no longer feel hungry.
When my husband looks at the house, I believe he sees a television in need of turning on, a remote in need of pressing, cycling magazines in need of being thumbed through, and beer bottles in need of opening, drinking, and being left on the floor by the recliner for me to pick up.
THE CHEAPEST APHRODISIAC
Which brings me back to Porn for Women.
I totally get choreplay. Why don’t fathers teach their sons about it? Why don’t relationship experts talk about it? Why isn’t it taught in high school health class? If more men knew about choreplay, nearly every marriage in America might be saved. More wives would feel horny. More men would get the sex they want. The house, for once, would be clean and orderly.
There’d be nothing to fight about.
The divorce rate would plummet.
You might think I’m just being silly, but I’m not. Think about it. Can you really get turned on when you’re exhausted? Can you feel frisky at the same time you feel unappreciated and taken advantage of? I certainly can’t. And when I’m working full time on top of doing 80 percent of the parenting and household chores, exhaustion and irritation are a constant state of emotional affairs.
Second, I don’t know about you, but whenever I try to let it all go—you know, try to live in the dusty, toy laden, newspaper strewn, dog hair covered moment—I can’t get turned on because I can’t focus on the task at hand. Instead, all I can think about is, “Can we get this over with already so I can unload the dishwasher and get those pee stains off the potty?” Could you get turned on with such thoughts running through your mind? I rest my case.
This is why, a few years ago, I gave up and hired Margarita, a cleaning lady who not only cleans, but also changes our sheets, takes out the trash, and washes our dishes. On the one day a week that Margarita makes over our house, I feel especially frisky. I walk from room to room and see the wide expanse of floor with nothing on top of it. I see gleaming counter tops in the kitchen. I see folded laundry, all in its proper place. I see a sparkling bathroom. I see an unmolested potty.
I see crisp, clean sheets, and I see sex waiting to happen on top of them.
I have to say, my husband is lucky that Margarita is not a man. If that were the case, he’d have some serious competition on his hands.
MODERN PILLOW TALK
Indeed, the Porn for Women photos spoke to me in a deep, sexual, guttural way, especially the jpeg that depicted a guy in an apron and the caption, “I made some Niman Ranch lamb tenderloin with garlic, black pepper, and Indonesian soy sauce for dinner. I hope that sounds okay.”
If Mr. Strong and Silent were to strap himself into an apron and use such pillow talk on me, I’d have him back down on the bed faster than you can say filet mignon. I’m getting a bit warmed up just thinking about it.
Oh, if he wore that apron and cooked me dinner every night? I would worship every inch of his body every single night—and morning, too.
Are you with me on this? I bet you are. Now here’s the real juicy part of it all. The day after I showed the vacuuming picture to Mr. Strong and Silent, I caught him unloading the dishwasher. He never does that. Ever. I stood and watched with the most amazing sense of awe.
“Wow, thank you,” I said.
Guess what? He did it again the following day. He also sorted the mail. He never does that either. And those shoes of his that I so often complain about littering the sun room floor? I haven’t seen a one, with the exception of the shoes on his feet or in his closet!
He hasn’t brought out the apron yet or offered to cook dinner, but last night he made a huge fuss over my baked chicken thighs. He washed the dishes, and he held my hand while we watched TV together.
As far as I’m concerned, he’s the sexiest man alive.
TODAY’S PROJECT POINTERS
• Rather than hen-pecking him whenever he does something wrong, try to catch him doing something right. You might have to be really patient and wait a really long time, but it’s bound to happen if you wait long enough. Then make the biggest fuss ever, one complete with a kiss, hug and bottom grab. With that kind of reward, he’s bound to do something right again.
• Buy the Porn for Women book (http://www.wannasnuggle.com/index/) and leave it on your coffee table. Get the wall calendar, too. He just might get the hint.
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Exactly! Why don’t men get this? They do their one helpful thing and think they’re taking care of half the household chores! Ah well, at least they have other uses.