But what if that noise was a giant spider?

I suppose I understand that certain jobs around the house are now and probably always will be assigned to me for whatever reason, or at least until the kids are old enough for me to subcontract the work out to them. This makes a certain amount of sense, so long as you're willing to subscribe to the stereotype that men are typically stronger than women, which is backed up by scientific evidence that we're all supposed to ignore in the name of being politically correct. Fine. I'll go out and shovel snow off of the sidewalks. I'll take the garbage out. When someone has to move a body, it's all me.

There are two jobs assigned to me though that I do protest. Oh don't misunderstand, I will continue to do them, as attempting to apply any kind of logic to getting out of it has continued to fail me. There's a reason the term "management" is applied here. She's really good.

First, why is it that I am the official slayer of many-legged beasts? I have an acute paranoia of any form of life that has more than four legs. I can't actually touch any kind of bug without feeling like its leaving some trace of itself on my skin that has to be scratched away. For the sake of my children, I attempt to overcome this, appearing brave and even forcing myself to allow a ladybug to crawl around on my hand. The kids think it's neat, but there is always a tiny part of me that's in panic mode the whole time it's going on.

Nonetheless, when some terror rears it's nasty little pedipalps, I'm called in to dispose of it. This makes no sense to me. I have no special training, nothing that gives me the edge when one of the furry little demons tears across the room like the wind itself. It's just my job. No reason.

By the way, did you know that the wolf spider is so named because it uses its speed and cunning to actually hunt it's prey instead of building webs? Well I do, and it doesn't help the situation one lick. Know thy enemy my hiney.

Worse than invertebrate dispatchment though is the job of sound check. I'm not talking about standing at a microphone repeating the words "check, check, sybalance, sybalance". I'm referring to those occasions where I must drag myself out of bed to check on a mystery sound that has occurred somewhere in our abode, typically checking the entirety of the dwelling to confirm that there is no imminent threat to our family.

The fact is, this isn't something I can actually dispute because I am more qualified than my lovely wife to check for the presence of an attacker. As any of you who have actually met me can attest to, I carry a commanding presence that does inspire a certain amount of fear and intimidation to those around me. No, seriously. What are you laughing at? I do. People fear me. I'm a bad mutha *$&%#.

Okay fine, I'm not. But still, going back to the aforementioned differential in relative strengths, I am more qualified to take on an aggressor. So there. I do not contest that this as my duty as man of the house. (Honestly, part of me thinks it's my job just because I'm the biggest, and thus would take the longest to eat should there be a monster downstairs, allowing the others a better chance of escape. You scoff, but these things will come up during the impending zombie apocalypse, and fortune favors the prepared.)

What gets to me is that I almost never hear the offending noise in the first place, which is weird, because I'm a much lighter sleeper. As a result, the knee-jerk response to "Did you hear that?" is typically "No, because I was *&%&ING SLEEPING!". (Did I mention that I can a bit cranky when I'm tired?) Needless to say, I repress said knee-jerk response because I'm not a big fan of sleeping on the couch, or worse, actually having an attacker in the house who walks in on my wife severely beating me about the head while I'm curled up in the fetal position whimpering like a little girl. So I get up, wander the house aimlessly checking locks and windows, peek in on the slumbering tots, and return to bed to issue the "All Clear".

So there it is. These are my jobs in the house and I don't like them. They are "man jobs", which seems wrong, simply because we all know that if I were to refer to some household task as "women's work", Oprah Winfrey herself would come to my home and kick me in the junk. Repeatedly. So we do them, and probably always will.

As a side note, however, I will continue to protest management's habit of telling me to "Get that sweet ass into the kitchen and whip me up a pie." That's just wrong.