(De-Bunking a Myth as old as Genesis)

(The following essay is intended to be humorous. The logic of the piece is so convoluted that I believed no one could take it seriously. Several ladies, who have read it, misunderstood my intent and became angry. Dear readers, do you believe that I had my tongue too deep in my cheek? Was the subject too sacred to be pocked fun at, or was this just a crappy bit of writing?)

While in college, I earned my living expenses by working in restaurants, part time during the school year and full time during the summers. The work was hard, hot, fast paced and often, stressful. Call me crazy, but I loved it. In a restaurant, most problems are brief. When lunch is over, it is over. It is time to climb the next mountain. This suited my attention deficit, short term brain perfectly. So, after five years of work/study, I graduated with a BA in business management and began my full time restaurant career.

For the next ten years, I worked, primarily in every kind of restaurant imaginable, fast food, fine dining, family restaurants, cafeterias and institutional food service. I even put in a stint as Training Director for Here's Johnny's! The former talk show host Johnny Carson's attempt to lend his name to the food service industry. I met and married Marjorie Ellen, an attractive student/bartender. We worked very hard, saved our money and waited for the opportunity to buy our own restaurant. That opportunity came in the form of the Dockside Bar and Grill, a 140 seat restaurant on the Iowa side of the Missouri River near Omaha.

After a combined seventy-five years of restaurant experience, three children and 7 grandchildren between us, Marge and I retired and moved to the warmer climate of Gainesville Florida. Over the years I had made many observations and reached a conclusion which I have not yet revealed to Marge, but will foolishly share with you at this time.

Almost all restaurants serve French Fries, from those serving fast food to those featuring the finest European cuisine. French Fries (pomme de frites) are French after all.) With the exception of restaurants that bag the fries out front, the job of moving the hot fries from the fryer basket to the plate is done by hand. And the hands must be bare because the fries are hot enough to melt those thin disposable plastic gloves. The cook must be quick to avoid being burned. Even then, it is admittedly uncomfortable, but that is considered a small sacrifice by those of us committed to serve. The average sixteen year old high school boy, working for minimum wage, does this without complaint. In fact, male cooks of all ages handle hot French fries as a matter of course. But women, without exception, seem unable to bear the pain of lifting a hot French fry from fry basket to plate. This leaves them the choice of moving the fries from basket to plate with tongs, which is much too slow, and mangles the fries, or waiting for the fries to cool to a comfortable but uneatable state.

The facts stated in the previous paragraphs lay waste to the idea that women are more able to withstand pain than men. At the same time, we have all heard that if men were to have the babies, the world's population would fit comfortably in the city limits of Omaha. What nonsense! Obviously child birth is far less painful than handling a hot potato for a split second. It is the author's opinion that birthing is at worst, a mildly uncomfortable experience, but more probably, a painless one. Women have propagated this myth so they may receive sympathy and breakfast in bed for a few days after the baby is born and receive a life time of lavish gifts on Mothers' Day. Jewish Mothers take it one step further and often inflict guilt trips on their offspring.

In 1992, a research team, working for a major pharmaceutical company began to study the information I have presented here. But, because of the enormous profits at risk, the study was abandoned.

This brings us to the question of how is the myth passed safely from one generation of women to the next. How do women inform one another? How do ALL women have access to this hoax, and yet no man had ever heard of it? Certainly it could never be put in print. One possibility would be to pass the word down from Mother to daughter. But, since occasionally a woman dies before their daughter is old enough to be informed, this method would prove less than perfect. What method could be used to transmit this misinformation to every woman on the planet, and at the same time, insuring that no man would ever become privy to it? The answer to that question eluded me for the longest time, until one evening, working in the dining room of our restaurant.

Of Course! When a man needs to go to the toilet, he excuses himself from the table and heads to the restroom. But for women, going potty is a group activity. She will announce that she needs to powder her nose and asks for joiners. And off they go, two, or three, or more, to the powder room to share their secret and perhaps initiate a new member to the club.