Are men necessary?

Are men necessary?

I've been racking my brain with this question for quite some time.

Maureen Dowd struggled with this question in a book with this title several years ago, and I must admit that although I have read her book, I am still at a loss. Michael Moore wrote in his book Stupid White Men that the portable, easy-to-carry, aluminum stepladder "did the male population in... and made us guys as useful as an eight-track tape." I am not sure Michael Moore is a hundred percent correct, because there are a few things I still need a man for.

And no, it’s not what you're thinking...

I confess that I own a stepladder. I can drill a hole in the wall. I can change a light bulb, and even check the oil in my car and add more if it's too low. But for the life of me, I can't twist open tight things, like the lids of jam and pickle jars. Or the cap of the water purifier, which needs to be opened every couple of months for the filter to be replaced.

The last time my daughter needed me to help her open a jar of pickles I gave in and said, "I need a man to do this," only to hear the contempt in her voice echoing in the kitchen. "You say a woman should not depend on a man to do things for her," or something of that sort. 

Of course, I can get that lid off, if I puncture it with a nail. That's how I do it when there is no man around. But I didn't want to make a hole in the lid. I wanted to keep it wholesome, perfect, and unpunctured, man or no man in my life!

So last week, in the absence of my judgmental daughter, I succumbed to the water filter's stubbornness. I unscrewed the whole contraption from the faucet, threw a pocketsize multi-tool Leatherman in a bag and took everything to my car. My idea was to corner a friendly man somewhere during my weekend rounds, shove the filter thingy and the pliers into his hands, and beg him to unscrew the lid.

My mission was accomplished when I ran into a colleague from work who could not resist my pathetic entreaties.  

Other things that drive me to look for a man come in the shape of dead rats! For some unknown reason my garage acts as a death trap for vermin. And when a dead rat manifests itself on the floor or under the stairs, nothing can move me toward its corpse. 

The last time I discovered a dried up rat in my garage I took to the street and called for help. I didn’t scream or flail my arms hysterically. I just called, "Is there a man around who can help me?" as soon as I spotted a male-type neighbor emerge out of a house across the street. The man, who I knew was a navy officer, came to my rescue without a moment’s hesitation. He picked up the shapeless pile of rat remains and deposited it in his own trashcan, so my fragile self would not have to be tormented by the contents of my own trash. 

I usually find myself thinking about the question "Are men necessary?" when I have to lift big heavy things, read electronic gadget manuals, or feel an urge to eat barbecue. But most of all, I think about it when it's ten o'clock at night and I'm in my pajamas on the verge of sleep, and it's pouring rain outside, and I suddenly remember that I forgot to take the trash out to the curb, with or without a dead rat inside.

It would be nice to have a man around to help with the little stuff in life. 

For the big stuff, I rely on myself.