Music makes me too introspective. Sometimes I wish I liked Britney Spears or The Feeling or some other insipid pop trash that I could just stick on and not think about anything. Instead I end up feeling like Roberta Flak as Elliott Smith sings my life. Perhaps acceptable when I was an angst-ridden teenager, but as an adult I should probably stop listening to such misery. It's not fair to say that I love miserable music, I just love emotive music - and most of the good emotive music just happens to be extraordinarily sad. And of course, all music is about me and my life. All of it. The reason I am loving Elliott so much right now is because so much of his stuff is about loneliness, feeling isolated in a room full of people. It is a feeling I have always known pretty well, usually because I am good at alienating myself. But there is nothing to highlight loneliness like seeing old friends and saying goodbye to them.
I have probably rambled before about my lack of close friends in Belfast. Goodness knows poor M (Can I name him from here? From this point on my husband will be known as Max) hears enough of it. It's partly a cultural problem, really. Showing emotion is bit of a cultural faux-pas in Northern Ireland, as is being tactile. Given the fact that I hug and kiss everyone to say hello, spoon with my best friend when we share a bed, and cope with problems by talking about them - I run the risk of being a real pariah here! It doesn't help that people in Belfast have always lived in Belfast. They have the same friends they have had since they were 6 years old. They don't need new friends. New drinking buddies are OK. New people are also good to fill out a party or have the occasional coffee with. But in terms of those "call them in the middle of the night because it just can't wait til morning" friends, they have enough of those. So do I, frankly. They just live in other countries. It bothers me sometimes, but after 5 years I am getting pretty used to it and don't let it get to me. Then my girls showed up.
I met Catherine and Colleen in Washington DC. We worked together in the same bar where I met my husband. Catherine was a career waitress at the time. Sharp tongued, sarcastic and no-nonsense would be the words that people would most often use to describe her. I would have to add total softy to that list, along with loyal as hell. Catherine is the friend you call when you have been feeling sorry for yourself for too long and need a good kick in the ass. She is also great for getting completely hammered and laughing uncontrollably for hours at a time. Then Colleen arrived. She was doing her masters in forensic science when we first met. To look at her you might think she is about 14 years old. She is only 5ft tall (even she wears heels I am nearly two heads taller than her) and looks like the Campbell's soup kid, but she swears like a sailor and loves to talk about brains and guts. She can change a tire unaided, cook anything without a recipe, speak three languages fluently and makes/alters most of her clothes. She is, in my eyes, the ideal woman. Strong, independent, intelligent and talented; funny, soft, open and compassionate. At the height of our friendship Colleen and I spoke at least 5 times a day, and I would have never hesitated to pick up the phone at 3am if I needed her. We refer to our friendship back then as "the time we were dating" and the period when we both met our husbands as "the time we broke up." Colleen and I have so many inside jokes that people hate being around us, as so much of the conversation is made up of nonsensical phrases like that muffin made my woman parts hurt followed by obnoxious laughter/snorting. The two of them were the first girlfriends I had where there was no catty competition or gossip, and I never experienced honesty and loyalty from women in such a way. One of my other close friends, Haley, is wonderful - but I am essentially her babysitter. With Catherine and Colleen it's always been a two way street.
Fate is a funny thing, and all three of us have ended up with Irish men (I suppose the fact that we were pretty much the only Americans working in an Irish bar helped things along). Colleen moved to Wicklow with her husband last year, only 3.5 hours drive from Belfast. Catherine followed her boy to London in January (although he dumped her just before her arrival and she is now doing her Masters degree alone in a foreign city). In spite of their recent proximity, we have not been in very good touch. Much like myself when I moved to Ireland, Catherine and Colleen are struggling to settle in. Things and people from home are simply reminders of what they are missing, and so not often welcome. Colleen is very proud, and it is clear that she is having trouble coping with her situation and doesn't want me to see it. The result has been me chomping at the bit to see them, but not really getting to do so. But last week I got them both at the same time! I was almost nervous, it had been so long.
My nerves were unfounded.
When I picked Colleen up at the train station we practically ran to each other, arms open, like those cheesy films with the couple running through a field of dandelions. We talked constantly for two hours, barely pausing for breath. Catherine arrived and there were more hugs and exclamations of "look at you" and "tell me everything!" Suddenly my worries about having no real plans and leaving them bored were replaced with how we were going to cram everything in to one night. Where I had thought it was a problem that I could not round enough people up for going out on a weeknight before, I was now overcome with the urge to cancel all plans so I wouldn't have to share these women with anyone else.
We went for dinner in a tapas bar and a four hour meal ensued, eating at a leisurely pace and drinking at a slightly less leisurely one. We talked about our families, our friends in Washington, our days working in the bar together. We talked about women in international development and the Presidential race, we talked about the time Catherine absent-mindedly packed her vibrator in her carry-on luggage before a trip abroad. We laughed so hard that my sides and face hurt, and other patrons of the restaurant began to stare. It was wonderful, and it was as if we had never been apart. When we finally managed to stumble home we all piled into one double bed and snuggled as we spent all night talking some more. I had almost forgotten how much I loved these women, maybe I had done so for my own sanity.
The next morning we had breakfast and I took them both back to the train station. I said goodbye quickly, like pulling off a band-aid. Max said I was almost cold, and he worried that Colleen and Catherine might think I wanted them to leave. When I got home and Max went to work I wrapped myself in a blanket and had a good cry. Some of the tears were those of relief. Relief that I had not lost the relationships I had thought time and distance deteriorated, relief that I was still capable of being the overly-emotional, affectionate, sometimes crude woman I was when I moved to Ireland. Some of the tears were joyful, leftover happiness and excitement from the night before. And some of the tears, the really painful ones, were the ones that came when I recognised just how much I have been missing - and what I am going to continue to miss.
Fortunately I had one of Elliott's more hopeful songs to get me through.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Monday, 24 March 2008
Blog about a Blog
Are you a complete loser when you start blogging about blogging? I feel like a dork when I even use the word 'blog.' So my personal response to the above question would be yes. But I am going to do it anyway.
I started writing this as a way to be completely honest with myself. To write how I am feeling and what is going on in my life in a totally uncensored way. Anonymity promised that no one I know would be able to hold anything against me. In theory, the anonymous nature of things would also mean I could easily dismiss any negative feedback from other bloggers. I had started writing it just for me, but that in itself was, I suppose, dishonest. I have never been a great judge of myself. I always need feedback and information from other people. The point of keeping an electronic record of my days was supposed to be personal reflection - but once again I find myself seeking other people's approval and answers. This is particularly discouraging considering that I have only two readers - and one of them is my sister (there goes the anonymity).
As a result I find myself trying to make my blogs more readable. My dashboard is filled with entries I have started and never finished because I could not get them quite right. It is ridiculous, really, considering that the only blogs I like to read are the one which seem true to life and non-formulaic. Once again I am chasing the image of how I want to be seen instead of being myself. I do that enough in the real world, I needed this space to be free of pretenses and prejudices.
That is not to say that the blogs I have posted are dishonest - they are not in the slightest. In fact sometimes I have to stop myself from deleting some of them because the thought of them being 'out there' for other people to read and critique is too much for me. My censorship comes in when thinking about the blogs I don't write. If I threw caution to the wind, didn't worry about what I could make sound eloquent or witty, I would probably write two posts a day. I would fill page after page with the odd notions running through my mind minute after minute. I would talk about politics and religion, but I would also talk about migraines and avoiding sex because you are having a particularly bad weak-bladder day. I would comment on more than just one of the many blogs I read loyally - even if it makes me feel like a weird, stalker-type character. After all, y'all wouldn't put them up if you didn't want people to read them, right?
So here I go, back to the 'warts and all' blog I had always intended to write. You may not like it. Hell, I may not like it. But at least it will be honest. I will, however, accept the part of my personality that for now requires some feedback, and try to pro-actively get more readers. I will also need to place a great deal of trust in my sister, that she will continue to keep mum about anything she reads here and still love me when she knows what I am actually like.
To help me with my new blogger persona, I am also going to need to learn some blogging etiquette (the constant use of this word is actually causing me to laugh out loud now). Does anyone have any pointers? For example - at what point do you add someone to your blogroll? Do you ask permission? Should you introduce yourself in your first comments on a blog? Do you reply to comments? How did everyone learn how to behave appropriately? Any help would be appreciated.
Brace yourselves, this could get ugly (or just plain boring)!
I started writing this as a way to be completely honest with myself. To write how I am feeling and what is going on in my life in a totally uncensored way. Anonymity promised that no one I know would be able to hold anything against me. In theory, the anonymous nature of things would also mean I could easily dismiss any negative feedback from other bloggers. I had started writing it just for me, but that in itself was, I suppose, dishonest. I have never been a great judge of myself. I always need feedback and information from other people. The point of keeping an electronic record of my days was supposed to be personal reflection - but once again I find myself seeking other people's approval and answers. This is particularly discouraging considering that I have only two readers - and one of them is my sister (there goes the anonymity).
As a result I find myself trying to make my blogs more readable. My dashboard is filled with entries I have started and never finished because I could not get them quite right. It is ridiculous, really, considering that the only blogs I like to read are the one which seem true to life and non-formulaic. Once again I am chasing the image of how I want to be seen instead of being myself. I do that enough in the real world, I needed this space to be free of pretenses and prejudices.
That is not to say that the blogs I have posted are dishonest - they are not in the slightest. In fact sometimes I have to stop myself from deleting some of them because the thought of them being 'out there' for other people to read and critique is too much for me. My censorship comes in when thinking about the blogs I don't write. If I threw caution to the wind, didn't worry about what I could make sound eloquent or witty, I would probably write two posts a day. I would fill page after page with the odd notions running through my mind minute after minute. I would talk about politics and religion, but I would also talk about migraines and avoiding sex because you are having a particularly bad weak-bladder day. I would comment on more than just one of the many blogs I read loyally - even if it makes me feel like a weird, stalker-type character. After all, y'all wouldn't put them up if you didn't want people to read them, right?
So here I go, back to the 'warts and all' blog I had always intended to write. You may not like it. Hell, I may not like it. But at least it will be honest. I will, however, accept the part of my personality that for now requires some feedback, and try to pro-actively get more readers. I will also need to place a great deal of trust in my sister, that she will continue to keep mum about anything she reads here and still love me when she knows what I am actually like.
To help me with my new blogger persona, I am also going to need to learn some blogging etiquette (the constant use of this word is actually causing me to laugh out loud now). Does anyone have any pointers? For example - at what point do you add someone to your blogroll? Do you ask permission? Should you introduce yourself in your first comments on a blog? Do you reply to comments? How did everyone learn how to behave appropriately? Any help would be appreciated.
Brace yourselves, this could get ugly (or just plain boring)!
Friday, 14 March 2008
Biological Time Bomb
The moment I realised I was in love with M was in IKEA. We had gone there for Swedish meatballs, just to kill a rainy afternoon. It was long before we said "I love you." It was before we had even stayed the night at the other's apartment. Yet standing there in that soulless warehouse, surrounded by rushing shoppers and bland Swedish furniture, I wanted us to buy a house and fill it with things and stay locked in it alone together forever. With my M, I never saw lightning bolts or got sweaty palms. I didn't feel weak at the knees when we kissed or pine for him when we were apart for an hour. But he has always given me this urge to settle down.
There was this time when I realised the loan my father had secretly taken out in my name defaulted and that any chance I had of taking out a loan to finish school was ruined. I felt so lost, so defeated, totally alone. I was sitting on a bar stool next to M, sobbing quietly and feeling like my life had finally caught up with me. M is a man of few words, but he just took my hand and said "we'll fix it. You and me against the world." It was kind of cheesy, he probably even got it from a movie or a song, but I was immediately comforted. If anyone else had said it I might have laughed, but from him it seemed true. Even M's smell makes me feel calm. Not the smell of his cologne or his soap, the smell of HIM. Sometimes when I can't sleep because I am feeling anxious or sad I bury my face in his neck and get a good whiff of him. It always works. I always tease him by saying that I only love him because of his smell, that his pheromones are so strong I couldn't resist him. This is, of course, not entirely true. But M's ability to inexplicably make me want to nest, and the ever-powerful draw of his BO are certainly testaments to the strength of biology.
As a social scientist, I have always been much more a fan of nurture in the whole NvN argument. But as evident above, I do believe in natural forces by which we are not rendered powerless - but are certainly weakened. Biology played its part in bringing M and I together, and it has started rearing its ugly head again - trying to encourage the growth of our little family. You guessed it, the old biological clock is ticking.
"Ticking" might be an understatement. It has been "ticking" for a while. I have always loved kids. I oooh and ahhh over babies, I have always loved babysitting and spent the majority of my teen aged summers as a nanny. I have often wondered what my children would look like and even written names down at the back of my diary. But this is different. This is not your average "tick-tock." This is an all-powerful, biological drive that says screw you, your plans, your husband's plans, your PhD or any gallivanting you had hoped to do - it is baby time. It is a pain in my ovaries when I see small children, the constant urge to touch my abdomen looking for any sensation that something is in there. It is an overwhelming urge to love and cuddle my dog in ways that no animal who has potentially just eaten its own feces should ever be loved or cuddled.
At first I thought my desire to pro-create was a societal invention. I worried that I wanted to have a baby because it was the next thing to do...go to college(check), get married (check), get a good job(check), buy a house (check) - have a baby. I grew suspicious that society was trying to force me to have a baby through brainwashing and manipulation. I began to rant at the news when it showed stories about the dangers of women having children in their 30s and 40s - convinced that it was an attempt by the male-dominated media world to reinforce the glass ceiling. Now I fret that if I don't get knocked up before 30 I am ruining any chance of having a family at all. Is it all hormones? My doctor thinks so. When I went to see him recently about the horrible, painful, emotional menstrual periods I have been having he informed me that "childless women of my age" often experience difficult menstrual cycles because their bodies are ready for childbirth (reminder, I am 27. 27!), and that once I have a baby it will all correct itself again. It probably is hormones to some extent. I mean, what rational woman would be so overcome by emotion alone that every time she sees a baby she gets the urge to grab and run? If it is nature, it's no wonder it is doing over time. Believe me, nature is going to have to work hard to beat out reason in this argument.
There are a million reasons not to have a baby right now. First being that there are so many things I want to do. I haven't been anywhere outside of Europe and North America. I want to see different cultures, volunteer in the third world, travel around speaking at conferences. And I am really selfish! I want to have the option of staying out with my friends until the early hours of the morning. I want my husband all to myself for a bit longer - I require a lot of attention and he can barely keep up as it is. And what about my youthful good looks? What will become of them? I want my nice perky breasts to remain nice and perky. I am concerned enough over the size of my arse, do I really want to make it bigger? And then there is work. I am only just starting to excel at what I do. I want to get to the top of my field and have the kind of career I have always dreamed of, not take a year off and let some idiot man take my job while I am home changing diapers.
Baby? Are you kidding? When? Where exactly is a baby going to fit into all of this?
But then I think about a little person with dark curly hair and big brown eyes and eyelashes so long they tickle your face when you cuddle her (this is what my husband looked like when he was a baby - one of those completely irresistible children who you just had to scoop up and hold tight). I think of trips to the beach and pony rides and first days of school. A little person who gives your life a whole new purpose and direction. Suddenly none of those things listed above even seem to matter - or they can at least take a back seat for while.
Everyone goes through this debate, right? No one likes to give anything up or having to share their partner's affection. Who willingly does something that makes your body change forever, and causes pain that you will never be able to describe? This is where nature kicks in (or kung fu/roundhouse kicks its way in, as it were). I think I will just let nature take its course and hope for the best.
In the meantime I need to find an outlet for my maternal instincts before I start nursing my puppy.
There was this time when I realised the loan my father had secretly taken out in my name defaulted and that any chance I had of taking out a loan to finish school was ruined. I felt so lost, so defeated, totally alone. I was sitting on a bar stool next to M, sobbing quietly and feeling like my life had finally caught up with me. M is a man of few words, but he just took my hand and said "we'll fix it. You and me against the world." It was kind of cheesy, he probably even got it from a movie or a song, but I was immediately comforted. If anyone else had said it I might have laughed, but from him it seemed true. Even M's smell makes me feel calm. Not the smell of his cologne or his soap, the smell of HIM. Sometimes when I can't sleep because I am feeling anxious or sad I bury my face in his neck and get a good whiff of him. It always works. I always tease him by saying that I only love him because of his smell, that his pheromones are so strong I couldn't resist him. This is, of course, not entirely true. But M's ability to inexplicably make me want to nest, and the ever-powerful draw of his BO are certainly testaments to the strength of biology.
As a social scientist, I have always been much more a fan of nurture in the whole NvN argument. But as evident above, I do believe in natural forces by which we are not rendered powerless - but are certainly weakened. Biology played its part in bringing M and I together, and it has started rearing its ugly head again - trying to encourage the growth of our little family. You guessed it, the old biological clock is ticking.
"Ticking" might be an understatement. It has been "ticking" for a while. I have always loved kids. I oooh and ahhh over babies, I have always loved babysitting and spent the majority of my teen aged summers as a nanny. I have often wondered what my children would look like and even written names down at the back of my diary. But this is different. This is not your average "tick-tock." This is an all-powerful, biological drive that says screw you, your plans, your husband's plans, your PhD or any gallivanting you had hoped to do - it is baby time. It is a pain in my ovaries when I see small children, the constant urge to touch my abdomen looking for any sensation that something is in there. It is an overwhelming urge to love and cuddle my dog in ways that no animal who has potentially just eaten its own feces should ever be loved or cuddled.
At first I thought my desire to pro-create was a societal invention. I worried that I wanted to have a baby because it was the next thing to do...go to college(check), get married (check), get a good job(check), buy a house (check) - have a baby. I grew suspicious that society was trying to force me to have a baby through brainwashing and manipulation. I began to rant at the news when it showed stories about the dangers of women having children in their 30s and 40s - convinced that it was an attempt by the male-dominated media world to reinforce the glass ceiling. Now I fret that if I don't get knocked up before 30 I am ruining any chance of having a family at all. Is it all hormones? My doctor thinks so. When I went to see him recently about the horrible, painful, emotional menstrual periods I have been having he informed me that "childless women of my age" often experience difficult menstrual cycles because their bodies are ready for childbirth (reminder, I am 27. 27!), and that once I have a baby it will all correct itself again. It probably is hormones to some extent. I mean, what rational woman would be so overcome by emotion alone that every time she sees a baby she gets the urge to grab and run? If it is nature, it's no wonder it is doing over time. Believe me, nature is going to have to work hard to beat out reason in this argument.
There are a million reasons not to have a baby right now. First being that there are so many things I want to do. I haven't been anywhere outside of Europe and North America. I want to see different cultures, volunteer in the third world, travel around speaking at conferences. And I am really selfish! I want to have the option of staying out with my friends until the early hours of the morning. I want my husband all to myself for a bit longer - I require a lot of attention and he can barely keep up as it is. And what about my youthful good looks? What will become of them? I want my nice perky breasts to remain nice and perky. I am concerned enough over the size of my arse, do I really want to make it bigger? And then there is work. I am only just starting to excel at what I do. I want to get to the top of my field and have the kind of career I have always dreamed of, not take a year off and let some idiot man take my job while I am home changing diapers.
Baby? Are you kidding? When? Where exactly is a baby going to fit into all of this?
But then I think about a little person with dark curly hair and big brown eyes and eyelashes so long they tickle your face when you cuddle her (this is what my husband looked like when he was a baby - one of those completely irresistible children who you just had to scoop up and hold tight). I think of trips to the beach and pony rides and first days of school. A little person who gives your life a whole new purpose and direction. Suddenly none of those things listed above even seem to matter - or they can at least take a back seat for while.
Everyone goes through this debate, right? No one likes to give anything up or having to share their partner's affection. Who willingly does something that makes your body change forever, and causes pain that you will never be able to describe? This is where nature kicks in (or kung fu/roundhouse kicks its way in, as it were). I think I will just let nature take its course and hope for the best.
In the meantime I need to find an outlet for my maternal instincts before I start nursing my puppy.
Tuesday, 11 March 2008
What is a Lady to Do?
I think I am betraying feminism. In fact, I think that lately I have been setting feminism back a few years.
Since moving in with my in-laws I find myself suddenly spending an awful lot of time in the kitchen, and getting chastised a lot when I don't. Somehow this project of renovating my new house has become my father-in-law's project, and I have been sent back to where I belong (see 'the kitchen'). At first I thought maybe I was just being a little touchy, a bit 'American' about the whole thing. But day by day I am starting to see some dangerous patterns emerging:
1. I am no longer consulted or permitted input into decisions made about the house
2. I am frequently told that I should not go to the house because there is 'no work for a woman' round there
3. My father in law refuses to tell me how much the electrician and plasterer are charging because he is concerned I will 'go off and spend the money' if I realise it is cheaper than previously anticipated
4. I was told that I don't do enough around the house, specifically that I am apparently 'afraid' to cook dinner because normally I 'make' my husband do it - which is apparently wrong
5. According to my father-in-law, my husband is too scared of me to make his own decisions, and this is my fault because I am so overbearing
On the day that the concrete floor was due to be laid, my FIL was searching desperately for a third body to help with the work. In spite of the fact that I was able to strip plaster off the walls faster than both of his sons, the FIL believed that pouring concrete was 'no job for a woman.' Neither, apparently, is sweeping up glass from the floor. Perhaps there is some genetic defect in the make up of female hands that makes us more susceptible to glass induced injury. Also, there seems to be some inherent inability for my female brain to make any decision or answer any questions about the house. This must be why whenever contractors ask questions (always directed at my husband) my better half stares blankly at me, leaving me to come up with the solutions - which, by the way, I am more than able to do. It seems that having breasts has been classified as a disability, and everyone is ok with it except me.
Now maybe I am jumping to conclusions, but there is substantial research that shows a connection between sexism and distribution of household chores. So you can understand my concern when I see my husband has started to relax into this happy little world where men do manly jobs and women do womanly ones. When I ask him for help with household chores, he has started saying things like "I've been at work all day" (um, hello, where do you think I have been all day? The circus?) or "when the football is over." When I ask him to pick up a greeting card for HIS mother's birthday or to come with me to visit HIS grandmother, he asks why I don't do it myself (this from a man who has spent one holiday with my family since we met and doesn't remember my mom's last name, never mind buying her a birthday card). Suddenly the man I love seems to have forgotten how to look after himself.
His sudden lapse into the 1950's is a bit annoying, but I am not overly worried for the long term. I know exactly how to handle my husband. The fact is, his father is right. He is a bit afraid of me. Frankly anyone who sorts through our joint laundry pile to find only his clothes and then asks me to wash and iron them needs to be afraid! I did not put myself through seven years of higher education (with another three to go) to do someone else's laundry. He knows I am not his slave, and I am sure once we get out of his parents' house and his mother doesn't pander to his every whim he will remember that fact.
But what the hell do I do with my father-in law? Do I accept that he is set in his ways and clearly has an inferiority complex because the family roles in his own family are not what he is used to (his wife has always worked, and incidentally is the primary breadwinner in the family)? Do I keep my mouth shut and be grateful that he is letting me live in his house and doing so much work on my behalf? Is there any way to be respectful and maintain my dignity? Because honestly, I am doing so many dishes my fingers are pruning. And if I accept one more of his sexist remarks I am certain Elizabeth Cady Stanton will roll over in her grave.
If he were anyone else I would firmly tell him to shove his dishes up his arse or do them his bloody self! However I think that might leave me homeless - and perhaps divorced.
Since moving in with my in-laws I find myself suddenly spending an awful lot of time in the kitchen, and getting chastised a lot when I don't. Somehow this project of renovating my new house has become my father-in-law's project, and I have been sent back to where I belong (see 'the kitchen'). At first I thought maybe I was just being a little touchy, a bit 'American' about the whole thing. But day by day I am starting to see some dangerous patterns emerging:
1. I am no longer consulted or permitted input into decisions made about the house
2. I am frequently told that I should not go to the house because there is 'no work for a woman' round there
3. My father in law refuses to tell me how much the electrician and plasterer are charging because he is concerned I will 'go off and spend the money' if I realise it is cheaper than previously anticipated
4. I was told that I don't do enough around the house, specifically that I am apparently 'afraid' to cook dinner because normally I 'make' my husband do it - which is apparently wrong
5. According to my father-in-law, my husband is too scared of me to make his own decisions, and this is my fault because I am so overbearing
On the day that the concrete floor was due to be laid, my FIL was searching desperately for a third body to help with the work. In spite of the fact that I was able to strip plaster off the walls faster than both of his sons, the FIL believed that pouring concrete was 'no job for a woman.' Neither, apparently, is sweeping up glass from the floor. Perhaps there is some genetic defect in the make up of female hands that makes us more susceptible to glass induced injury. Also, there seems to be some inherent inability for my female brain to make any decision or answer any questions about the house. This must be why whenever contractors ask questions (always directed at my husband) my better half stares blankly at me, leaving me to come up with the solutions - which, by the way, I am more than able to do. It seems that having breasts has been classified as a disability, and everyone is ok with it except me.
Now maybe I am jumping to conclusions, but there is substantial research that shows a connection between sexism and distribution of household chores. So you can understand my concern when I see my husband has started to relax into this happy little world where men do manly jobs and women do womanly ones. When I ask him for help with household chores, he has started saying things like "I've been at work all day" (um, hello, where do you think I have been all day? The circus?) or "when the football is over." When I ask him to pick up a greeting card for HIS mother's birthday or to come with me to visit HIS grandmother, he asks why I don't do it myself (this from a man who has spent one holiday with my family since we met and doesn't remember my mom's last name, never mind buying her a birthday card). Suddenly the man I love seems to have forgotten how to look after himself.
His sudden lapse into the 1950's is a bit annoying, but I am not overly worried for the long term. I know exactly how to handle my husband. The fact is, his father is right. He is a bit afraid of me. Frankly anyone who sorts through our joint laundry pile to find only his clothes and then asks me to wash and iron them needs to be afraid! I did not put myself through seven years of higher education (with another three to go) to do someone else's laundry. He knows I am not his slave, and I am sure once we get out of his parents' house and his mother doesn't pander to his every whim he will remember that fact.
But what the hell do I do with my father-in law? Do I accept that he is set in his ways and clearly has an inferiority complex because the family roles in his own family are not what he is used to (his wife has always worked, and incidentally is the primary breadwinner in the family)? Do I keep my mouth shut and be grateful that he is letting me live in his house and doing so much work on my behalf? Is there any way to be respectful and maintain my dignity? Because honestly, I am doing so many dishes my fingers are pruning. And if I accept one more of his sexist remarks I am certain Elizabeth Cady Stanton will roll over in her grave.
If he were anyone else I would firmly tell him to shove his dishes up his arse or do them his bloody self! However I think that might leave me homeless - and perhaps divorced.
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