The Parable of the Woman and the Housework

Wooden Spoons

Some wooden spoons after I begrudgingly washed them.

Housework in a busy house is like pissing against the wind. Some compulsive cleaners solve this problem by getting up early or staying up late, or not going to bed at all. There are suburban myths, doing the rounds, of ladies vacuuming carpets before breakfast and dusting late into the night. These stories are passed from mother to daughter and amongst friends at children’s birthday parties.
I once heard, on a tea break in work some years ago, of a woman who did all her housework on a Saturday. She saved everything for that one day. Every Saturday morning, she would sit down with a cup of tea, a slice of toast and drop an ecstasy tablet. Four hours later the vacuuming, dusting, mopping, washing and ironing would be all done.
My personal favourite, for its’ simplicity, is the woman who would spray a can of pledge in the hallway just before her husband would walk in the front door, genius.
Last week, staring into the half full box of washing powder I resented the little white and blue grains of slave dust. That was before Karma intervened and the washing machine broke. Now I am sentenced to dissolving them in the sink full of warm water, until the repair person (likely a man) arrives.
I feel I should be grateful to all the men over the years who have invented gadgets and gizmos to assist their women folk. No doubt when asked to lend a hand, what with equality and all that, they responded by taking to their drawing boards instead of drying the dishes as they were asked.
For the tall lad with the grey hair, obsessed with suction and the bloke who invented the self-wringing mop for his wife, my insincere gratitude. The list probably goes on, but I won’t complain cause I’ve three uniforms to hand wash and Karma might be listening.

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