So, I don’t know about you but I’m no June Cleaver. My idea of creased clothing comes from a dry cleaner or by shoving my shirt on air dry for a few extra minutes to ‘iron’ out the kinks. I don’t ‘do’ toilets or trash. (Kid you not, in my single days, I used to pay the neighbor boys.)
When I cook it involves gingerly slipping the yummy boxed goods out of their takeout bag and arranging the delectable goodies on my plate so it looks pretty. I am ALL about presentation…chefs say that’s half the taste anyway, right? Ask me about world politics, I’ll have an answer. Want to talk literature? I’ve got all day. Give me a vacuum, and **cough**cough** I think I’ve come down with a cold.
And then I got married.
Don’t get me wrong, I married the most fantastic man; and he is a domestic god. He never whimpers about taking out the trash, doing the laundry, or cleaning ‘pet mess.’ His family owns a magnificent deli & catering business, so most of the time he is MORE than happy not to have me cook (apparently he likes flavor and tenderness in his meals, go figure). He happily pays the gardener each month, changes light bulbs before asked, and even vacuums. Only compromise is bathroom and kitchen duty are mine (apparently he has limits too). I know, I know...I’ve struck gold, right? Then why do I feel so bad?
Grrr…I think that’s the suppressed adult in me saying it’s time to grow up and carry equal weight. Oh how I sometimes long the days of blissful selfishness, maids, and eager frat boys willing to help with household chores. But I just had to go fall in love! Housewives beware: I’m about to go make nice with Mr. Clean and a pair of yellow gloves. Who knows, I may unleash the Martha in me yet…
1 comment:
What is this weird pressure we get to be domestic goddesses once we get married?
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