All-male home could benefit from feminine balance

My life has somehow become modeled on a 1960s-era situation comedy – “My Three Sons.”

The last female was written out of our daily script by her departure to college in Omaha. Sons pop in and out, changing the cast, but the effect is the same – multiple males, no female.

I’m left to fill the Steve Douglas role of head of the house. A little known fact is that Fred MacMurray owned half of the “My Three Sons” franchise.

I need a better agent. I own only 100 percent of the bills in our version.

Unfortunately, we’re short one “Bub,” the chief cook and home cleaner on the show. We do have the dog role filled – well, we think Sparky’s a dog. She’s never active enough for us to get an actual read.

She could be a golden marmot that sneaked indoors. We do know this: If she’s a dog, she’s no Lassie.

No one dares fall into a well around our house.

It’s getting to the point that, without Bub, no one dares touch the cooking around our house. Recipes I overhear in the office vanpool haven’t done much to improve the outlook.

One famous attempt at duplicating a chili recipe ended up with me taking my son on a late-night run to the emergency room with a stomach issue. In my defense, all I can say is that the jar of chili powder sure seemed small.

That was an Emmy-winning episode.

I’m growing increasingly convinced that the weekly dose of Americana dispensed in black and white from the family Philco didn’t give enough credence to the fact that it’s invaluable to have a female around the house.

Sure, being an all-male dorm has it advantages – you can spend the day parked in front of a televised NFL draft with nary a discouraging word, but there’s something missing in this sea of testosterone. Balance.

Two recent events have driven that point home to me.

The first is planning my basement remodel. Carpeting, paint choices … everything confuses me!

If God meant for men to understand a color wheel, he would have had Les Schwab put them out. My male swagger has been reduced to begging women around the office to let me know if “things are matching up.”

Throwing up is more like it. There’s nothing more pathetic than a guy hanging around street corners asking women passers-by if they would like to “come up and see my carpet samples sometime” – and mean it.

The second event was when one son ran afoul of school attendance rules, missing a class. In our all-male world, that’s akin to a four-alarm fire, but a woman can bring something other than a “who won or who lost” outlook to a problem.

She can bring a “how did you play the game,” or “what was your motivation” approach – valid points in determining solutions.

Growing up, the Three Wise Men of TV were Jim Anderson from “Father Knows Best,” the aforementioned Steve Douglas, and the biblical Ward Cleaver – men with all the answers. But I’m betting that real-life Margaret Andersons and June Cleavers have lion-sized roles in family decision-making.

Though womanless, our situation comedy at home rolls on, with another son taking residence. The headaches continue, though.

The dog wants greater billing, and we’re beginning to have “creative differences.”