You've Come a Short Way Baby
You may think this will be another whiny diatribe about how badly women are still treated by men, and you'd be right.
You may think this will be another whiny diatribe about how badly women are still treated by men, and you'd be right. Take for instance my experience in a hardware store awhile back.
Something happened to the metal thingy at the end of my garden hose and being handy, I knew it could be replaced at the hardware store. Just what happened to it, I don't remember. This probably happened last week. I don't remember that either. I probably ran over it with the car.
Anyway, I had ten minutes to spare, so took myself down to the hardware store. I should have known when the man behind the counter looked at me as if I couldn't read the sign on the door: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Women, No Service. I politely asked where I could find the metal thingy that goes on the end of a garden hose. Smugly and snidely he asked, "Is it a half-inch or 3/4-inch hose." That stopped me. I figured a garden hose was a garden hose. He knew he had me. After stalling as long as I could, about 2 minutes, I guessed, "3/4 inch - or maybe half-inch. What's the standard?" With a long obnoxious sigh, "There is no standard. Is it 3/4 inch or half-inch?" he asked again impatiently, as if I were keeping him from his other customers with my foolishness. (There was no one else in the store.)
Knowing I'd have to make a decision or lose face, I boldly said, "3/4 inch." Then he had the utter gall to ask me, "Is that the female end or the male end?"
"W-w-w-hat?", I stuttered. He just smiled an evil smile. I slinked off and left the store, trying not to let the little bell ring, emphasizing my humiliation..
Well, on the way home I got really mad! Who does he think he is, anyway? Deciding on a plan of action, I pulled into my driveway and without turning off the motor, loaded up the stinkin' garden hose and hied (I've always wanted to use that word) back to this Nazi male enclave. I unloaded the filthy, muddy thing and burst back into the store, throwing it clumsily at his feet. "This is the hose, you dipshit! Is it 3/4 inch or half inch?" I decided not to bring up the male/female thing. Without even looking at it, of course, he found the right part and led me back to the check-out stand.
He began to ring it up so I steeled myself for the next question. "Where I can find the little metal round thingy that you tighten up to hold it on the hose?" I actually thought he'd be impressed with my knowledge that one needed that sort of thing. He ostentatiously cancelled the sale (once again trying to impress on me that there would actually be other customers he'd have to check out before this transaction was over). This time he didn't ask me anything about gender, but brought back the part I needed and slammed it on the counter. We successfully completed the sale and I cumbersomely wrestled my garden hose out of there with as much dignity as I could muster. He smiled superiorly while it took me about 10 minutes to get out. End of dignity. End of story.
But, while I'm on the subject, have you noticed that most of the items in hardware stores don't have names - besides thingy? Or if they do, there is a conspiracy of silence as to what they are? Tell me boys, is this something you learn at your daddy's knee? ("Whatever you do, son, don't tell women that this is called an elbow joint - let them go in and embarrass themselves by asking for the curved thingy that goes on the end of a pipe.") The same applies to tools. There is a ballpeen hammer, a carpenter's hammer, a tack hammer, and for all I know, a serial killer's hammer. Do they tell you not to explain this to the other half of the human population? After all, the next thing we might want to know is how they talk about women when they get together in bars. Little do they know, I don't even want to hear that!
Well, I fantasize about owning a sewing machine store. I fantasize that this man will come in one day and ask for a sewing machine needle. In my glory and with great glee, I will ask him, "Do you want a 8/60, 10/70, 12/80, 16/100 or 18/110?" He'll stand there simulating a macho posture and guess, "10/70". Then, I'll grin, "Do you want a Ball Point, Universal, Denim Sharp, or Top-Stitch." Now he'll be on the ropes. I'll know I've got him when I inquire, "Is it for a Low Shank, Singer Slant, or Viking?" while I'm following him out the door witnessing his utter defeat.
But, I know this is only a dream. I'll never have a sewing machine store. He will never come in. He is probably married and will make his wife come in. Poor girl!
Something happened to the metal thingy at the end of my garden hose and being handy, I knew it could be replaced at the hardware store. Just what happened to it, I don't remember. This probably happened last week. I don't remember that either. I probably ran over it with the car.
Anyway, I had ten minutes to spare, so took myself down to the hardware store. I should have known when the man behind the counter looked at me as if I couldn't read the sign on the door: No Shoes, No Shirt, No Women, No Service. I politely asked where I could find the metal thingy that goes on the end of a garden hose. Smugly and snidely he asked, "Is it a half-inch or 3/4-inch hose." That stopped me. I figured a garden hose was a garden hose. He knew he had me. After stalling as long as I could, about 2 minutes, I guessed, "3/4 inch - or maybe half-inch. What's the standard?" With a long obnoxious sigh, "There is no standard. Is it 3/4 inch or half-inch?" he asked again impatiently, as if I were keeping him from his other customers with my foolishness. (There was no one else in the store.)
Knowing I'd have to make a decision or lose face, I boldly said, "3/4 inch." Then he had the utter gall to ask me, "Is that the female end or the male end?"
"W-w-w-hat?", I stuttered. He just smiled an evil smile. I slinked off and left the store, trying not to let the little bell ring, emphasizing my humiliation..
Well, on the way home I got really mad! Who does he think he is, anyway? Deciding on a plan of action, I pulled into my driveway and without turning off the motor, loaded up the stinkin' garden hose and hied (I've always wanted to use that word) back to this Nazi male enclave. I unloaded the filthy, muddy thing and burst back into the store, throwing it clumsily at his feet. "This is the hose, you dipshit! Is it 3/4 inch or half inch?" I decided not to bring up the male/female thing. Without even looking at it, of course, he found the right part and led me back to the check-out stand.
He began to ring it up so I steeled myself for the next question. "Where I can find the little metal round thingy that you tighten up to hold it on the hose?" I actually thought he'd be impressed with my knowledge that one needed that sort of thing. He ostentatiously cancelled the sale (once again trying to impress on me that there would actually be other customers he'd have to check out before this transaction was over). This time he didn't ask me anything about gender, but brought back the part I needed and slammed it on the counter. We successfully completed the sale and I cumbersomely wrestled my garden hose out of there with as much dignity as I could muster. He smiled superiorly while it took me about 10 minutes to get out. End of dignity. End of story.
But, while I'm on the subject, have you noticed that most of the items in hardware stores don't have names - besides thingy? Or if they do, there is a conspiracy of silence as to what they are? Tell me boys, is this something you learn at your daddy's knee? ("Whatever you do, son, don't tell women that this is called an elbow joint - let them go in and embarrass themselves by asking for the curved thingy that goes on the end of a pipe.") The same applies to tools. There is a ballpeen hammer, a carpenter's hammer, a tack hammer, and for all I know, a serial killer's hammer. Do they tell you not to explain this to the other half of the human population? After all, the next thing we might want to know is how they talk about women when they get together in bars. Little do they know, I don't even want to hear that!
Well, I fantasize about owning a sewing machine store. I fantasize that this man will come in one day and ask for a sewing machine needle. In my glory and with great glee, I will ask him, "Do you want a 8/60, 10/70, 12/80, 16/100 or 18/110?" He'll stand there simulating a macho posture and guess, "10/70". Then, I'll grin, "Do you want a Ball Point, Universal, Denim Sharp, or Top-Stitch." Now he'll be on the ropes. I'll know I've got him when I inquire, "Is it for a Low Shank, Singer Slant, or Viking?" while I'm following him out the door witnessing his utter defeat.
But, I know this is only a dream. I'll never have a sewing machine store. He will never come in. He is probably married and will make his wife come in. Poor girl!