A Woman’s Work Is Never Done
Sure, I look stunning. This morning, not so much. I had the kids up early and off to day camp, picnic basket packed and our jon boat trailered to the Nomad before Charles dragged his carcass out of bed and beelined to the icebox. “Yes, dear,” I said before he could ask. “I paid the milkman this morning so there’s fresh cream for your coffee.” Heavens to Betsy!
While daddy-o goofed around with the hi-fi, made a ton of racket reading the Sentinel Journal and yapped about the Brewers moving out of Milwaukee, I was in the garage mixing up the gas and oil, stinking up the place. Charles is just so helpless—his concoction had our old outboard smoking like a chimney!
And don’t get me started on getting the old goat started. Charles would be sweating like a coal stoker and cursing a blue streak tugging on the rope.
But we hit the lake running today thanks to the push-button starter on our new Evinrude Big Twin. And the motor is so quiet that I can hear the loons on the lake. We have it made in the shade.
Now if I can only get Charles to get his meat hooks out of the picnic basket and back here on the tiller so I can unwind a bit. A woman’s work is never done with a man around to muck it up.