I’m busy from early morning until late at night. Along with work, trying to find work, and the stress of not having enough work, there is so much to do around here it’s hard to explain, and hard for a man to understand. Many men will help a woman, but only if you ask, and then it’s “OK, but does it have to be done right now?” No, it doesn’t have to be done right this second, but when I have to ask again, and again, and then again…
Women aren’t born nags—we acquire this awful trait out of necessity. Because of the things men can do because of their physical strength or knowledge of magical things like wires, we are beholden to them. When they fix something, we must heap praise upon them. Any tiny thing a man does he must be thanked profusely for, while we run ourselves ragged doing everything else.
He says if I want something done to ask him. See above. So, many women give up and do it themselves, wear themselves out and become resentful. I don’t want to have to hand out assignments, explain how I want it done, then see that it’s carried out correctly. I don’t have children so I don’t understand how men get this way, because I always think if I had a son, I would have taught him how to be self-reliant. Maybe it’s impossible.
(My neighbor across the street from me, whose mother died recently, now owns the house and is a big fat slob. After months of watching bags of household garbage pile up in his yard, I finally asked him to clean it up. He did, but now there’s a new pile. When I see his car gone, I go over there and pick up the garbage he leaves out front, visible to me every day. Not only is it disgusting, but it brings down property values. This 30-year-old guy was spoiled rotten by his mother. So now this is a new fucking chore I have. He also has an unspayed dog he won’t let in the house. When he’s not there, I go fill her water bowl and give her dog biscuits.)
Sometimes I try to just stop doing so much. Let the dishes or laundry pile up, stop picking up around the house, not get a chair to stand on to change a lightbulb. This backfires because my partner doesn’t notice—then when he has no clean T-shirts he comes to me and wants to know what to do. If and when he finally does wash the dishes, I have to do them over because there’s crud on them he missed.
Then there’s the amount of toilet paper some men go through. How did this become my responsibility to make sure there’s more under the sink? If I let us run out there will be none for me. If I let the constant dirt and animal hair slide, if we run out of milk or soap, if the dogshit in the yard doesn’t get picked up—I’m the one it affects, not him. He just doesn’t see it as a problem. He’s never been known to clean a litterbox.
So not only does a woman have to actually do the chores, she has to keep a mental checklist of all the chores that need to be done. It’s fucking exhausting. So what’s the point of even asking—and more importantly, why do I have to ask? I know he doesn’t feel good and I accept this. But there are small things men can do that would make a big difference in a woman’s life.
I think men should live in outbuildings—barns or sheds or tents. Why must we keep them in the house?
And why do I like them so much?