Our beloved congressmen/women who vote themselves raises and lifetime pension plans while the rest of us struggle to build a sufficient retirement is an obvious double standard.

And, back in the day when men were men, we ate first, then the children, who were silent during the meal, and the women fed afterwards.  I’m talking real, homecooked meat, garden fresh vegetables and fresh baked bread.  Ah, the good ole days.

Now, it’s tough to find a woman who cooks at all.  “Honey, don’t forget to pick up my favorite menu item #4 from For Women Only Salads and More.  You know that’s my favorite place to eat.  I need for you to also stop asking what the ‘and More’ means.  Women only.  Men can use the drive-through.  And the precious, little darlings want pizza again.  I’ve also texted your phone the drinks we need from Moon and Stars Pay Too Much for Coffee Emporium.  Please remember the Double Dip cookie dough ice cream.  The children were grouchy last evening before bedtime without their night-night sweets.  Refrain yourself from the double cheeseburger combo.  You can drink water, and the fries are not good for your cholesterol and blood pressure anyway.  I know you want a homecooked meal.  Maybe I’ll cook you one next week.  I won’t be available today.  The girls and I will be shopping and have yoga class.  Luv ya.  Oh, I need your credit card.  Mine is maxed out, I think.  Could you check on that for me?    Hope you have a nice day.”

Really?  Seriously?  You think there might be a double standard in there somewhere?

Women no longer heed the notion that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach (and other stuff too, but no further elaboration, this is a PG-13 publication).

Grandchildren, at least mine, innately possess an evil, manipulative, double standard spirit.  As much as I love them, it is a harsh reality.  Let me explain.

Nap time for them is hush-hush time for everyone else in the house.  Whispers and tippy toes are required so the sweet babes will awaken rested, refreshed and in a GOOD MOOD!  You know, less fussy than normal.

Pop’s nap time is noise-noise time for everyone else in the house.  Children run, scream, cry and act out more than usual.  The other adults carry on in typical fashion increasing the TV volume (they say because I am snoring), running every electrical appliance in the house, banging pots, etc.  No one cares if I awaken rested and refreshed.  A predictable comment from the household would be, “Wow, Pop sure woke up in a sorry ass mood.”

However, the prowess of the miniscule, adorable grandmunchkin is most masterfully manifested in the kitchen.

Who enjoys the tender fillet from Pop’s perfectly grilled porterhouse?  The little grandbeastie.  Who partakes of more than half of Pop’s hot, crispy, greasy, golden-brown, cornbread hoecake fresh from Gramma’s iron skillet?  Again, the little grandbeastie, with a smirk and smacking “its” lips.  Quite  obviously, the cute, ill-mannered sapsucker enjoys the spoils of war.  Adding insult to injury, I am routinely assigned the task of feeding the wee tyke MY prime portions.

So I ask, “Does anyone care, even notice, that we have a huge double standard wreaking emotional and palatable havoc on the grandfather?”

And predictable comments from the adult occupants, “No!”  “We don’t care.”  They’re babies, for God’s sake.”  “Geez, Pop sure is in a sorry ass mood.”  “Pop, you need a nap!”