Women do the bulk of the share of housework. FACT.
Women do not enjoy housework and do not have a natural, innate flair for it. It is not ‘women’s work‘. FACT 2.
Yet unfortunately, in our house, things are no different. Because I work part-time and the old man pretends to work full-time (apparently eight-hour lunches and golf days constitute REAL work), we have carefully worked out an agreement where the amount of housework we each do is pro-rata-ed, based upon the hours we work.
Obviously, this agreement needs some remodelling occasionally.
For example, dealing with bin juice will NEVER be my domain – even when we both retire. Women don’t do bin juice, just as men don’t wipe bench tops.
But sometimes my bosses get over-zealous about their profit margins and my accountability (yawn!) and throw our careful planning out with the bath water when they spring extra work on me and I have a run of several HUGE, fucking exhausting days. At the end of which, the only thing I am capable of doing is thinking about Tyson’s chest in the shower on I’m A Celebrity with a big silly grin on my face, and slurping wine noisily and sucking the chocolate off Maltesers in bed.
It’s only Thursday and already this week has been MASSIVE.
It began with the major disappointment of the Libspill result on Monday, which was only compensated by the timely addition of Tim Robards’ chest to the Celebrity Jungle.
Then the old man dumped a work dinner on me mid-week, where I had to either bite my tongue or sip more wine each time I was tempted to have a pop at my husband in front of his colleagues.
Which is why I need to whinge about that old chestnut of balancing work and home AGAIN, because I’ve noticed over the past three days that when I work more than two big days on the trot, the whole house goes to shit.
You see, in spite of fact that there has ALWAYS being a washing machine in our home, no-one but me knows how to work it – although the whole family is very proficient at bemoaning their lack of socks; not one of them is capable of cooking anything unless it starts its life in a tin; and as for cleaning – don’t make me fake-laugh and pee my new Calvin Klein pants.
It must be so nice to be them – to come home from a hard work of toil to an ordered, chaos-free home, where a content, ‘fed, watered and walked’ dog awaits, where there are plumped up cushions, and the inviting smell of home-cooked food smouldering cooking in the oven.
Rather than the chaos I walk into.
Home work not started and due the next day; wet towels draped on every inch of flooring; a cockroach feast of empty chip bags and cereal boxes strewn all over the coffee table and a dog that is on the verge of self-combustion from the agony of holding onto a full bladder for too long.
And then there’s dinner to think about, which is when I have to stifle very bad thoughts about adding dog food to the pasta sauce or getting the dog to wee in the apple juice.
Or has trying to balance work with family turned me into a vengeful psychopath who might just come home one day, suddenly reach crisis point and react irrationally to that first wet towel on the floor I trip over and in vengeance roast the dog for dinner?
This week I’ve decided that it might be safer to transfer my mental energies to Tim Robards abs.
And no, in answer to your question, Kurt, it’s not PMT.