I know he doesn’t think I’m really doing anything when I’m writing.
I know he thinks it isn’t real work.
I know he thinks I’m being useless.
Or, at least that’s what I feel he thinks.
I can sense it.
I can sense that he is disappointed that I can’t actually do some thing that involves physical work around the house for more than 30 minutes without completely fucking something up or not doing it “right.”
I’m a failure of a housewife. What more can I say?
I’m not a bad cook, but I’m not great either. I don’t enjoy cooking for people other than myself. I’m used to being single. I’m used to cooking to suit my tastes and just enough for me.
I’m not a good housekeeper. I’m not used to so much space to have to upkeep. I’d so much rather just pay some one to do all the dirty nitty gritty work for me. I’m not a slob. I keep things organized and tidy and clean up the bathroom when I’m done in there–wiping down the sink and all. I do my dishes when I’m done with them. I clean up the kitchen after each meal. I take out the trash and recycling when it’s full.
I don’t put shit away that isn’t mine or that I didn’t get out.
I don’t scub floors and windows.
I don’t reorganize unless the feel of the room is throwing off my creative productivity.
I don’t take things apart and clean out their insides.
I don’t vacuum.
And I get the sense that I’m seen as a lazy slob because I despise those tasks and anyone who would ask me to do them.
He enjoys them. I can tell. He takes pride in doing it all himself. He gets pleasure from it, I’m sure.
I don’t. And I don’t see it as being worth my time. It’s more worth my money than my time. Because I’d rather spend my time doing this.
I’d rather spend our morning together in the sun with herbal tea.
I’d rather spend our morning together doing yoga in the backyard.
I’d rather spend our morning together making love countless times.
I’d rather spend our morning doing ANYTHING buy cleaning!