That's a rhetorical question.
Outnumbered by 4 to 1 ( including the cat ) male: female ; is it any wonder as a lone woman in a tidal wave of testosterone and manopausal tendencies.
Take yesterday evening . A pleasant enough start with a culinary masterpiece of thoughtfully marinated Thai salmon - healthy for eldest teen , Asian infused for youngest son's preference , barbecued to husband's delight , with leftovers to boot for the cats. Procured, prepared and cooked to perfection, a crisp bottle of Chablis to hand and a little tossed salad on the side with a lusciously decadent loaf of olive oil and herb infused bread to mop up the juices. It's making me salivate just writing this.
The conversation begins un-menacingly enough with a lively debate on the wonders of technology ; a favourite topic for my gadget - hungry male household. I proffer up a harmless enough comment about the nonsense of remote-control overload ( we have at least a dozen in our house ) along the lines of 'We can put a man on the moon but we can't get a remote control to work properly ( telling my age I know, I'm still stuck in the Apollo heyday of the sixties ).
Unwittingly , I have unleashed a Pandora's Box of an opinion which is immediately shouted down as an irrelevant interruption, a hackneyed gripe, an idiotic fallacy and many things , far worse, besides.
How's that for a conversation killer ? In short , I am wrong, they are right , I don't know what I'm talking about , I'm clearly an intellectually challenged Luddite and I've completely spoiled the entire evening.
My default response is to retreat inside my protective shell and venture no more verbal contributions to the 'discussion' whereupon I'm rounded upon for sulking, being sullen, and acting like a moody teenager - pot calling kettle black ?
I pondered on the days events, the lifts to the station, the ferrying to and from a myriad of last minute summer holiday optician's and orthodontist's appointments, the constant filling and emptying of the fridge and the clearing up after , the emptying of tenners from my purse for crucial expenses ( I have been keeping Subways and Shakeaway in business for the last 9 weeks) , the endless mountain of laundry and more besides and I realised that I had sunk t the depths of Dobby the House Elf. My response to the accusation of having contributed a moronic comment to the debate should have been to have gone outside and flayed myself with a bunch of birch twigs.
As I write this, I can hear hilarious guffaws coming from the TV room ( wonder if they've managed to switch it on with the remote control ) as the male contingent of our household are glued to Storage Wars, Jackass and ............. insert name of any banal and mindless US TV import here, whilst I am typing , having just cleaned the toilets and cleared bedroom floors of baked beans encrusted plates and dirty underwear.
This is the part of my rant where I should reconcile myself to the fact that they're only men/boys and therefore know no better and that I'm happy to enslave myself to their every whim because that's what mothers do . But I'm struggling.