Along with all the other attributes that make them so desirable, persons of the feminine persuasion possess a very special touch, whether soothing the cheek of a crying infant or wiggling the stubborn lid off a jar of applesauce. It’s a genetic gift that guys just don’t get—one that’s involved with thinking and reasoning rather than with simply grunting and pulling things apart.

     This gift is most likely related to the same gene that enables a woman to find the keys, glasses, pens, and other objects a guy doesn’t see when he’s staring straight at them, because of the kill-and-fetch bone that God stuck into his head instead––back in the apple and snake days of the original garden. While the female of the species has evolved through many centuries, men have managed to maintain pretty much the same hammer-and-chisel mentality.

     Take, for example, our chronically clogged sink drain that continually threatened to swamp the bathroom and drown its inhabitants during a simple tooth brushing. I poured about every drain cleaner known to man down there, including a few not commercially available. I ran the hot water for ten minutes per the instructions––even tried cold. Nothing. Finally, I got the plunger. Muscle! That ought to do it! I took a full masculine grip on the handle, two hands, and began to plunge. I plunged and plunged until my arms ached, then plunged some more—sucked up all sorts of smelly black stuff, even some hair and fuzz balls.

     A relaxed, manly grin replaced my thinned, tightened lips as I confidently turned on the water. In the reflecting pool that was once again forming in the porcelain bowl, I could see the corners of my mouth curl slowly downward. I repeated the plunging process several times, even jiggled the stopper thingy that lives in the middle of the drain, only to watch the pooling water rise even faster than it did before I started “fixing” the sink.

     Now, I’ll play with electricity to nearly any extent necessary, no problem. The worst you might get is a tingle, but you can’t spill it and you don’t have to mop it up. I’ll pull electrical stuff apart all day, but I refuse to play with water beyond the dabbling I’d already done. So with the announcement that we’d have to call a plumber to clean out the clogged elbow, and a thirty-two ounce swallow of male pride, I put down the plunger and surrendered.

     As I was about to leave the bathroom, a small voice from the doorway (not my little voice … this was different) who had witnessed most of this, gently said, “Do you mind if I try?”

     The all-knowing manly grin returned as I said, “Go ahead. Plunge your heart out!”

     With that, I headed for the kitchen, it was Miller Time! The cap was barely off the bottle when I heard the pitter-patter of little feet behind me. It was the small voice.

     “I fixed it,” Vigi said rather matter-of-factly.

     “You fixed … you, you fixed it?”

     “It’s fine,” she smiled.

     “How, how’d you do that?” I stammered.

     “It’s all in the touch,” my womanly woman calmly replied, as she handed me the plunger and went off to dust something.

     I’ll always figure I must have loosened the clog for her. I must have!

PS: She says she’ll give me credit for that.