You know there’s trouble brewing when you come into the house and hear these words: “Oh my God, what were you thinking? She’s going to kill you!” Spoken by my grandson, the Britween, to my husband, the Brit, they hold ominous portent, especially when followed by the Brit’s utterance that can only mean total mayhem and destruction here at Waterman Manor: “I was just trying to be helpful!”
My heart and mind raced my legs to the kitchen where I was greeted by the ruins of a wall of soap suds. “What happened?” I asked calmly as I prepared for the impending storm. Britween, who is wise and sometimes a wise guy, intoned, “GrandDad the Genius ran the dishwasher using the dish soap, instead of the Cascade.” With a small flourish, he opened the dishwasher and revealed a wall of suds that even Moses could not part.
“It was all the way out to here, Grandma!” Britween pointed toward the laundry room, where yet another scene of devastation awaited. The Brit had used every clean bath, hand, and dish towel to wipe up the sudsy overflow, still oozing from the dishwasher like Vesuvius’ pyroclastic flow that obliterated Herculaneum. The pile of sodden terrycloth was almost as high as that fateful volcano. So I tried to look on the bright side: At least the kitchen floor was clean.
I come from a family of men who epitomize the Nike slogan, “Just do it.” My grandfather owned a prosperous dairy farm that he created from the dirt up. He twice built the farmhouse in which his family lived (the first house was destroyed by a fire). His sons were equally adept, serving in the Navy, running the farm, managing stores, and his second eldest boy, my Uncle Ron, is still an amazing architect and businessman.
Mom raised two boys and two girls as equals in all things, including each doing our own laundry and a share of the rest, plus cleaning, cooking, and mending. My brothers are terrific cooks and even bake a mean birthday cake and decorate it! I have followed family tradition, teaching Britween, ever since he was a Mini-Brit, how to run the washer, dryer, and dishwasher, as well as make his bed, vacuum, and dust. He cooks terrific scrambled eggs, shepherd’s pie, and his favorite mac and cheese.
The Brit, on the other hand, is what his younger brother (who is quite handy) refers to as “Officer Material.” Brit the Younger explained: “Until the end of the 19th century, military rank was not earned but purchased by wealthy families seeking to raise the status of their sons. So many of the high-ranking officers had no military or battle experience whatsoever. Plainly speaking, they were incompetent idiots—Officer Material!” Ah, that explains a lot, like why they marched through the American woods wearing bright red targets—I mean coats—while losing, um, I mean fighting the Revolutionary War.
My late stepfather, an old cowboy from Oklahoma, best described hapless men like my husband, saying, “He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel!” That pretty much sums up the Brit, as does my favorite Yiddish word: schmendrick!
My husband has been defeated by a cell phone when Britween, then age 4, installed the battery and charged the phone for him. The Brit would starve to death, and so would the cat, if no one was around to operate the electric can opener. Frankly, the cat has better odds of mastering this appliance. Our electric teakettle met an early demise at the hands of Officer Brit because “The bloody thing never whistled!” Our new kettle has an automatic shutoff feature.
The television remote can be as deadly as a phaser set to kill in the Brit’s hands. With the push of a button he can inadvertently cancel an entire season of Project Runway or the newest episode of The Big Bang Theory. The mournful cry of “What happened to my show?” is often heard in the halls of Waterman Manor. In the name of all that is sane and sacred, Britween always records the British soccer games for his GrandDad on the weekends.
The Brit also fancies himself a master organizer. If a piece of paper is important, or just looks important, J. Edgar Waterman has the answer: “Make a file for it!” His stack of neatly labeled manila folders, each containing a single sheet of paper or receipt, could fill the National Archives. Britween now warns me, “The mail is here. Quick—hide the box of folders!”
Now, I know there are some of you ladies reading this who are thinking I shouldn’t complain. Your fantasies comprise scenes of the men in your lives helping around the house while you recline in a hot tub with a glass of wine and an Oprah magazine. You have a point, but I am not a whiner. I’m a worrier. Try to imagine allowing Mr. Bean in your kitchen, laundry room, or bathroom with objects that spray, spin, emit heat, or have suction.
So what does the Brit do right, if anything at all? In a word: everything. We are about to celebrate seven years together, six of them married, and I have learned what he is capable of. When allowed near the hot stove and sharp knives, with a little watchful aid from our Grandson, the Brit cooks up the most succulent lamb chops and steaks.
His business acumen has guided us through a tough economy, his common sense has kept our cars running and insurance premiums paid on time, and he brews a cup of English tea strong enough to compete with the boldest cup of coffee imaginable. Best of all, he is the sexiest septuagenarian I know. His rich, English accent, soft brown eyes, firm shoulders and gentle, strong hands make my heart flutter. And that’s all the maintenance I need!
Ariel Waterman has a wonderful husband; she just needs a handyman. Would singer James Taylor please contact her via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com?
This article appears in Apr 5-12, 2012.