Hmmmm.
You will recall that Valentine's Day brought Josh the special treat of a broken kneecap. Thus, getting around is a trial and carrying things an impossibility for him. Therefore, I am now the household's sole homemaker. Consequently, I have been taught an important lesson about the workings of my psyche, to wit:
I am so not cut out for this Donna Reed gig.
I am not too proud to tell you that my customary insistence on equality in the division of household chores has little to do with any feminist principle and much to do with my intense dislike of cleaning, cooking, folding and dusting. Fortunately, Josh's parents raised him right, and up until now, this division has gone smoothly and without complaint: no shoulderer of unfair burdens, I.
Lately, of course, things have changed. Josh is out of the running, housework-wise. It's difficult to say which one of us has it harder: me, with the sudden doubling of chores, or him, having to eat my *shudder* and/or *yawn* cooking every night for dinner. One thing is for sure, though: smiling sweetly and providing unobtrusive service to my family does not come naturally. Murray has about had it with my lengthy monologues on his level of poop production. Josh, knowing that he depends on me for water glass placement, is wisely keeping his own counsel, but I sense that I am approaching my quota on world-weary sighs.
The main problem here, I think, is my inability to come to terms with the cyclical nature of housework. I am forever staring at a sink full of every single dish we own, including that weird cooking utensil that we don't even know what it does, and saying "What! Again?!" I am unable to shake the "There, that's done" feeling that registers with each completed task, despite knowing that it will have to be done again and again. Thus, I am constantly ambushed by clutter, dirt, and smelly things that, in my deluded opinion, should not be there, since I just took care of them. It's getting so I'm afraid to turn bright lights on, for fear of the mess that will have mockingly appeared since the last time I looked. I believe I may be developing a new syndrome, something like Cleanliness Expectation Dissociation Disorder.
This could get ugly. If my theory is correct, it's only a matter of time before I start to question my own senses. "Sure," I'll think, "it looks clean to me, but what do I know? After all, I could have sworn I just did laundry, and yet a pile of dirty socks just tried to hug Murray!"
Once my mind starts to go, it'll all be downhill, of course. I'll begin to buy "cooking" wine by the case. I'll make thinly veiled sexual comments to the paperboy, who will just be horrified due to my chosen attire of a mustard-stained housecoat and tube socks. I will growl at people in the grocery store.* I will scream obscenities at telemarketers who call during the day and interrupt my stories.
Two weeks down, four more weeks on the crutches. Pray for us, lest you find me on the porch sneaking Pall Malls, while Josh has clandestine meetings with a fetching young physical therapist who fluffs his pillows with a smile and "just can't understand how anyone could let themselves go like Hilatron did, when she had a fine catch like you!" It's going to be a long, cliched March.
*Okay, but louder than now, smartass.
Posted by hilatron at March 5, 2003 12:43 PMYour food's neither *shudder* nor *yawn*, and I'm not running away with any physical therapists. Well, unless he's got a particularly tight ass. ;-o
Posted by: Josh at March 9, 2003 11:06 AMThese are the words of a man who knows where his bread is buttered, or at least how his bread is transported from the kitchen to the couch. :-P
Posted by: Hilatron at March 9, 2003 06:38 PM