On doting moms and their coddled sons

Shelly over at This Eclectic Life is discussing a topic that I just can't resist:

What tasks should all people, regardless of gender, be able to do?

Can I, the woman who is marred to a man who cooks, irons, cleans toilets and builds beautiful things out of scraps of wood complain?

Nope.

Not about him. But ... *snicker* I can go back into Ex Territory and pull forth the most perfect example evah of What Happens to Those Who Can't Do.

To save him embarrassment -- and to keep from rendering him Forever Single and Totally Unmarketable -- I will call him Al.

And now let's zip back to 1997, when I hooked up with a co-worker after a night of dancing at the the Copa.

That would be Al.

For several weeks, we went out to dinner, movies, drinks after work ... and then back to my place.

The first red flag to pop up and wave merrily was his refusal to invite me over to his apartment. It was too messy, he told me.

My girlfriends entertained themselves by speculating over the reasons why he wouldn't let me come over.

"He lives with someone," one theorized. "Married," said another.

I would soon learn, however, that NO woman, except me, of course, would have ever moved in with this man.

Months passed.

One weekend, I went out of town, so Al stayed at my place to take care of my dog. He never went home.

Eventually, we decided to rent a house together. And only then did I finally see his apartment. Flag No. 2? That would have been the little note taped to his door threatening eviction if he didn't clean the place up.

So of course I still moved in with him.

Oh, 27-year-old Cathy, what an idiot you were.

Once we settled into the house, I learned the true extent of Al's helplessness. He couldn't hook up the washer and dryer. (I did it.) He'd never vacuumed. (I did it, while he laid on the couch, cracked jokes and lifted his feet as I roared by.) Nor did he know how to iron. (In this case, I let him walk around looking like he'd foraged through the clothes hamper.)

Which is why, when we broke up -- twice -- he looked far more pitiable than me, what with the rumpled clothes and the annoying way in which he lost weight while I packed it on.

When I kicked him out the first time, we had lived together for a year.

And when we reunited, I swore to him that we would maintain separate households and that I would never spend the night with him until he purchased bathmats and hand towels. He owned neither. Oh, and he had to learn to vacuum.

When I asked Al how he could stand to live that way, he always said, with a touch of pride, "My mother always did everything for me."

Red flag No. 3, anyone? Quick, hand your little boy-child a dust cloth!

Shortly before the second breakup, Al's very proper English mother came to town for a visit.

Al's mother lived in Houston. In her free time, she traveled around Europe, attending various operas. When she came to visit Al in Arkansas, she always stayed at the finest hotels and ate at only the best restaurants. She never felt compelled to check out her son's abode.

Then, during one visit, Al's mother unexpectedly decided she would like to see where her son lived.

We had just finished lunch at a restaurant when she announced her intentions.

Al's face paled. I choked back giggles.

Oh. My. God. This ought to be good.

Gleeful, I practically skipped from the restaurant to my car. Then I followed Al & Mom as they headed to Al's house. I laughed all the way there.

I knew, you see, what awaited her: hardwood floors with a layer of leaves and dirt tracked in by Al's two dogs. Big puffballs of fur and even a few twigs. Yes, TWIGS.

And mind you, the scene I was envisioning didn't even include the revolting kitchen, the scary bathrooms or the hairy couches.

I hurried, wanting to be there when she walked into that house for the first time.

HA! See what you raised? See what I had to live with for a freaking year? See why I will never share space with this man again?

It was the most priceless moment of the entire relationship -- watching Al's prim and proper mother as she walked gingerly across the living room floor, mouth pinched and nostrils flaring.

I cackled to myself and then headed home. A few hours later, Al called. His mother had bought him a vacuum cleaner, he told me sheepishly.

And in the background, I could hear a dull roar.