Guilty of being born male

I frequently find myself feeling guilty for having been born male. This was especially the case after receiving an e-mail from a friend undergoing the stress of preparing for the family Thanksgiving feast.

"I'm doing the traditional spread," she wrote. "Julia is bringing the pies, my daughter the green-bean casserole, and so on. What are the men bringing? Only their appetites. And after consuming in 20 minutes what it took us hours to prepare, they'll settle back for an afternoon of TV football while we ... do the dishes."

"If it wouldn't be such a step down, I would just once like to be a man! No labor pains, no 3 a.m. breast-feeding, no preparing three meals a day for a lifetime -- and low expectations."

What good wife or significant other hasn't felt that same resentment? Even only temporarily?

I plead guilty to being a second-class husband in many ways. When it comes to cooking, I can boil an egg, make a sandwich and do rice according to the instructions on the box. I once tried to roast a chicken but gave up after the ordeal required removing the entrails from the poor bird's interior. Such an invasion of privacy -- the hen's as well as mine -- was too much.

Longtime buddy Glenn Keever qualifies for good husband honors. He can do it all. He's a better-than-middling cook, and I've heard him boast about creating the best omelets in the history of man. Not to mention his barbecued pork chops.

Over coffee recently, he noted he'd been getting the house in order for his wife's return from a weeklong beach trip.He had vacuumed the house, run the dishwasher, scrubbed the bathroom and washed two loads of clothes. I was more than impressed.

When I pleaded guilty to being, perhaps, the most inept house hubby on the planet, he said: "My private feeling is that many older generation men -- yourself included -- were largely kept from doing household chores by wives who wanted their secure 'place' in the family. Being basically lazy, men let them have their way.

"Somewhere along the way, I ran the washing machine once and discovered it's not brain surgery to wash clothes. Ironing was a little harder, but it's not difficult to do your own knit shirts. The dishes wash themselves, and putting them away only requires a little searching.

"Oh, yes, I may occasionally put some bowl or glass in the wrong place because it gives my wife such pleasure to say at her bridge club, 'Can you believe he put the stainless steel spoons in the sterling silver chest?'"

He concluded with, "Husbands, above all, are pretty dumb. Or certainly not as smart as women."

His comment brought to mind the anecdote about a woman who wrote to her newspaper's advice columnist, Dr. Walter, who happened to be a man.

She described how she had set off to work, leaving her husband in the house watching TV. A mile away, her car broke down and she returned to the house to find him carrying on with the neighbor's wife.

"When I confronted him, he broke down and admitted to an affair," she wrote. "I told him if he did that again I would leave him. I love him very much. But since I gave him the ultimatum he has become increasingly distant. He won't go to counseling. Can you please help?" -- Shelia

"Dear Shelia," Dr. Walter responded, "a car stalling after being driven a short distance can be caused by a variety of faults with the engine. Start by making sure there is no debris in the fuel line.

"If it's clear, check the vacuum pipes and hoses on the intake manifold and also check all grounding wires. If none of these approaches solves the problem, it could be that the fuel pump itself is faulty, causing low delivery pressure to the carburetor float chamber. I hope this helps." -- Dr. Walter.

On behalf of husbands like me, I utter a deeply sincere, "Mea culpa." Especially at this time of year.