Every once in a while you have a conversation that is that is so stereotypically female, it makes you wonder if things have truly changed that much. It also feels like you’ve unwittingly set women back a half century.

I had one of these conversations last night at a baseball practice, and the sad part?  It was so natural, I didn’t notice the irony until today.

It started with someone discussing her phobia of germy sponges.

Other Mother: You don’t have to be afraid of them, when they get dirty you can just nuke ’em?

Me: I run mine in the dishwasher.

Spongephobe Mom: I’d NEVER use a sponge.

Spongephobe Mom (to us moms, who sat with our mouths agape at the idea of not using a sponge):  I don’t need a sponge. I just let my dishes soak in some hot water with JOY.

The above sentence, which really occured is the very reason the rest of my tête-à-tête with the team moms will include 1950s translation.

Other Mother (visibly shaken): What do you use… a paper towel?

50s translation: Don’t tell me you use paper towels?  They can rip and tear! Why, they’d never hold up to vigorous dish-washing.

 

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: I’m confident in the cleaning power of Joy.

 

Me to the Other Mother (accusingly — like an evangelist being told about evolution): I bet she’s scraping that crud off with your nails.

50s translation: That explains why her nails look so unkempt. (For that phrase to have the truest 50s effect, one would have to utter it in a loud whisper to other disapproving woman during a game of mahjong.)

 

Spongephobe Mom: Nope.

50s translation: Stop staring at my nails, gossip maven.

 

Me: But what if you sauté?

50s translation: How does it hold up to grease from deep frying?

 

Spongephobe Mom: No problem.

50s translation: It cuts right through the oily residue that frying can leave behind.

 

Me and Other Mother (in unison):  NO?!!!

50s translation:  Gasp?!!!

 

I nonchalantly inspected her hands for cracking and chaffing.

50s translation: “I bet your manicurist isn’t pleased with the way you do your dishes.” (Snicker snicker, then I would look to other girls for nods and implied high fives.)

 

Spongephobe Mom:  I only soak the dishes, not my hands, dumbass. (okay, in the actual conversation the dumbass was merely implied.)

50s translation:  Joy leaves my hands supple and soft, and it’s emollients condition as it cleans. Then she would look at my hands sitting in a bowl of what I thought was simply water and say, “You’re soaking in it.”

 

So that happened. I can’t take it back, in fact I wish I could just not have realized how trite the whole thing sounded a day after it happened. Let’s be honest, you’ve read my blog … I so rarely have cliche conversations, I’m due one every so often, no?