It was one of those nights when everyone and everything needed something at the same time.  The phone was ringing, the dogs were barking, the kids needed help with their homework, the dinner dishes were still piled high in the sink, and the washing machine was rocking uncontrollably out of balance.

My husband, seeing this as an opportunity to earn some major brownie points, offered to clean the kitchen.

I walked in and saw him leaning over the sink with a look on his face that meant, “Eeew, gross!”

He was studying the skillet, a scrubbie-brush thing in his hand, holding the handle way at the end so that the water wouldn’t touch him.  He was green around the gills.

This is the same man that can gut a deer and hold the intestines with his bare hands.

Men are so funny!  They have trouble picking up a teeny doggie doodle without gagging, but they can wade through the muck at the bottom of a lake or bay without flinching, the decaying matter squishing up through their toes.

They are disgusted when a baby smears smashed bananas on their arms but are okay with pushing a fishhook through a live worm.

They go into spasms when asked to wipe snot off a kid’s nose but can step on a roach in a heartbeat.  The sound of the crunch and the explosion of the guts doesn’t bother them at all.

I walked into the kitchen later that evening and noticed the skillet still in the sink.  He noticed me noticing.

“Well,” he said, “it needed to soak!”

So, I washed it.  I really didn’t mind.  But he has to promise to keep killing the roaches and baiting my hooks.