No, thanks, I say.
Once, I hoped that writing would make me the bittiest bit-bit of money, like 100 pounds a month – and it did for a while, for 6 months, maybe, and then it stopped, people stopped paying, even though they still expected lines from me, lines of words to fill their work, the real work.
If a normal person – who is, like me, glad to be alive – stays in a rural retreat for more than two consecutive nights, she WILL lose her mind or become depressed. She will start whispering to ovens. ‘Open Sesame,’ she will say to gas ovens.
No, thanks, I also really don’t want to subscribe to your daily horoscope, because then you think you own me – at least the tone of your writing thinks that it should own my soul – with its Monster Moon phases, its Pluto square Saturn, opposition Mars, Mercury retrograde, 12-year cycles of limitations, and many more aspects that should keep me immovable. I shouldn’t travel, shouldn’t make decisions, or stand up to anyone, especially persons of authority; I shouldn’t let children out of my sight, or else. All in all – not a good time to make changes, the horoscope people say. But, then, it has never been a good time for changes for those who subscribe to horoscopes, ever. I know. Get it?
No, thanks, don’t slowly explain to me why I should accept whatever my children’s schools decided was good for my children. I am not dependant on everyone else’s opinions just because everyone else is lucky enough to go to work and I stay home and am a home-maker.
Which leads me to: No, thanks, don’t call me a homemaker.
You call me a home-maker because you are trying to say that by staying at home I make an income by making it feel like home, and my husband should respect that. You calculated how much money a housewife invisibly earns, and you rebranded us as home-makers. Our husbands should pay us for agreeing to make homes, and maybe you could one day tax us as well.
But I’m a housewife. I am somebody’s wife, and I spend most of the time in a house. And nobody pays me for that.
It is a debilitating life. It’s a major migraine trigger. Still, whenever I, albeit more recently, tried to be more than somebody’s wife in the house, I was even more humiliated, very shrewdly, with smiles of supremacy. I feel like it’s too late to join the outside world. Like people don’t want me there. We are shit-for-brains wives in a house. So don’t call us homemakers. Well, at least, don’t call me that. Or at least, support that calling strongly – and not with the photos of unhappy, hysterical babies of the working mothers. Our babies are hysterical, too; they’re also less respectful of us. Support us with a law that secures us a cheque in the mail every month. Just rebranding us into ‘home-makers’ sounds horrible, like a voluntarily chosen profession, and I never wanted to be that. Never.
At least a ‘housewife’ has some drama and a lot of tragicomic elements to it.
When will a soft-tempered housewife break that glass ceiling? Never, right? And that, only that, would be a defining moment. Thatcher was the first female PM, but she was made of iron, apparently, and had hurt many lives. So, should she really count?
I think that yes, she should count, as children’s diseases count as those early, once inevitable, immune system boosters.
But, let’s get softer and rise higher; let’s not get nastier to rise higher is what I’m saying.
But I don’t think it would be the case. Not in my lifetime.
I think men will get softer before we do. They will start enjoying the house chores, and they will be the real homemakers. They will support each other in this new entrepreneurship. And by supporting each other, they will find the ways to get paid for being proper professional homemakers, the soft pillars of society. Damn.
No, thanks, I say.
I don’t want to pay a fortune and go to a rural retreat!
Even if it’s in Tuscany, or South of France. As far as I’m concerned, you can stop advertising expensive rural retreats. Please don’t underestimate me because I don’t really work, and must have tons of time on my hands – evil playgrounds.
Yes, I only write, sometimes, which is totally insane, I know.
Once, I hoped that writing would make me the bittiest bit of money, like 100 pounds a month – and it did for a while, for 6 months, maybe, and then it stopped, people stopped paying, even though they still expected lines from me, lines of words to fill their work, the real work.
If a normal person – who is, like me, glad to be alive – stays in a rural retreat for more than two consecutive nights, she…
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