Me, I'm good for a lot of things.
For instance, I know when and how to put a roll of toilet paper on the toilet paper dispenser. For me, this is a cinch. When is simple: when it runs out, you need more. How is a little trickier, but I'm still on top of it: I just pluck off the cardboard core from the old roll, discard it (an important step that no one in my family has managed more than about one time each), and slide the new roll onto the metal rod. I concede that some toilet paper dispensers are fiddlier than others, but after a little practice almost anyone can do it -- even the gender challenged.
I'm excellent at telling which weeds are compostable and which should be thrown out. Which are which? Dandelions are non-compostable. Their roots have an admirable quality to remain vigorous and life-sustaining for ages. Occasionally, I've dropped dandelion roots in dry, shady places only to find new leaves sprouting from them weeks later. Dandelions are as vigorous and tenacious as montbretia corms, and in my family, only I can spot them.
When it comes to mouse guts, half-eaten birds, cat puke and other cat-generated mess, I have an uncanny ability to identify and remove. Others can step right over (and occasionally into) these messes and not spot them. Once again, my vision, though nowhere near as acute as others', wins out. In a matter of speaking.
I'm a prime weather watcher. I know the best weather for drying clothes, and I can get the laundry washed and hung out in less than an hour. Other family members, when called upon to do the laundry, are all too prone to let a golden day of clear skies and warm breezes pass by, putting on the laundry as soon as the first storm clouds have sailed into the sky. The central heating system must then be used (at great expense) to dry the clothes which are draped over every radiator in the house.
I can perform small miracles. I can cook a very tasty meal from virtual scraps, in a kitchen where almost nothing has been put away where I can find it. Then, after said meal has been consumed by somewhat ungrateful children, I can hold (sort of) my tongue. Okay, I can't really, but let's just say that my whining is as nothing compared to what I'd really do if I didn't hold back. They have no idea what I've spared them.
Now I'm honor-bound to tell you what my husband can do besides going out to do a job he hates every single day just to feed his family. He can drive to the supermarket and shop. I can't do this. I don't know why I can't, but there it is. Maybe I'm too busy piddling with montbretia corms and dandelion roots or fiddling with the laundry. Maybe I've exhausted myself doing a loaves-and-fishes in the kitchen or gotten stressed out cleaning up cat messes and holding back from all the belly-aching I'd like to do. Whatever the reason, almost invariably my exhausted husband will ask, "What do we need from the store?" and I will tell him. And then he will amaze and delight me by going out to buy it.
Ah well. Either you've got it or you don't. What are you good for?
