Really, I shouldn’t complain. This has been a wonderful week. The big project I’ve been busy with celebrated its birthday, and I’ve been on the receiving end of an amazing list of special surprises — including one that sparkles and one that will drastically improve my home life, as well as visits from the Tulip Fairy, Orchid Fairy and Cupcake Fairy (no, I’m not sharing them).
I spent Wednesday with my best girl, having our nails done, lunch at the tea shop, window shopping in the mall.
If not for the fact that this sinus infection will not let up, it’d be a perfect week.Today, the boss took pity on me (thank you, Boss).
The plan was to get the grocery shopping out of the way, slip into my sweatpants and take up a book for the rest of the afternoon, leaving the work til tomorrow, when — hopefully — the brain fog clears.
You can imagine my angst, then, to pull into the driveway and find the garage door wide open and all the lights on, but no one inside. In short order, someone from the plumbing company that installed our furnace 14 months ago returned.
Given that we’ve been trying to get them to fix some glitch or other since the darn thing was installed (and paid for), I didn’t think it unreasonable for me to stop by my own garage and ask him how it was going.
He was just here about the fan, he said. I asked about the banging we keep calling about and got a very defensive reply that ended: “Do you have a man? Is there a husband?”
W. T .F?!!!!
He continued in that vein before I cut him off and called him on his attitude, making it clear that no man would stand in MY house and speak to me that way. He quickly backpedaled, but by then, the damage was done.
Listen, I’m no stranger to being second class. I waitressed my way through college putting up with men in business suits cracking wise about my serving them “city gin” while they tried to look down my blouse.
I worked for 20+ years as a journalist — a profession where even the men are sometimes viewed as second class.
And I’m an adoptee who is by law not permitted access to my health or family records, for pete’s sake.
But it was too much to have this twentysomething neanderthal refuse to discuss the finer points of furnaces with me because I’m not a man.
How is it that in the 21st century, there are still men who think having breasts negates having brain cells? I nearly threw him out, but thankfully had the sense to realize he was holding the fan parts. So I hung out and silently watched while he finished the job. (In case you’re wondering, yes, I had to endure “plumber’s crack.”)
Later, I spoke with his boss, a milquetoast type who said he would “talk to” the guy.
Fat lot of good that will do.