Boys created English. For that, I hate them.

I had never really heard of the word “husbandry” until I came across it in a grammar blog. In talking about the origin of the word, the author explains that the word “husband” originally had nothing to do with being married, it simply meant head of household.

Three hundred years later, the word began to mean “married man” (because most male heads of the household were married). Around that same time, the word husbandry appeared.

Here’s where I start to hate the English language. At the same time that husband took on this new definition, the word “husbandry” entered the vernacular, a noun meaning the management of the household and its resources.

Example: Sarah is in charge of the husbandry and feeding the dog.

HOWEVER, that probably wouldn’t fly considering I’m not a dude and therefore can’t manage a household and its resources. I’m a girl. I can’t do important things like that. All I can do is make babies and pies.

I’m not sure why I’m so mad. I have nothing against babies or pies. I don’t particularly want to manage a household, but I don’t want my mother flipping language to tell me what I can and cannot do.

I’ve come up with a new word. It’s a noun: womoaning. As in, I’m sick of all his womoaning. He cries like a girl from dealing with all the husbandry. Then I always end up cooking dinner and balancing the checkbook and mowing the loan. He’s such a great husband. And, by husband, I mean ass.

Eventually husband will be defined as ass and to cry like a man will replace to cry like a woman.

Don’t even get me started about the word “history.” Screw his story. I bet hers is better and more accurate. Because boys are always wrong and never remember anything and they totally make stuff up. Except my dad. He’s exempt. And Sarah’s dad. And Bruce – for now.

Also, as a side note, the word husbandry has since evolved to mean farming and agriculture work. That bothers me less. Maybe because I have no interest in raising pigs in which to eat. Gross.

Sometimes I can’t even believe how much of a nerd I am. I even astound myself.

P.S. I apologize to all my future husbands. I’m talking to you, Jonathan Jackson. I promise not to take my grammar rage out on any of you.

– Sarah #2

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