DOMESTICITY CLAIMS ANOTHER GENIUS
Ok, so now that Anton is working ridiculous hours each week, I've taken it upon myself to step up to the plate in the domestic stakes. Hence my lack of blogging in the last few days.
I'm cleaning, washing dishes, walking the demon dogs, scrubbing dried-up food off laminated surfaces and cooking now. Ok, so according to Mellipop's stringent criteria in defining the culinary arts, heating up previously prepared food is classified as cooking. To my mind, if it doesn't come pre-prepared by a pimply adolescent in a paper bag it's fucking cooking, alright.
All of which leaves me little time to attend to the burgeoning flower of my God-given creative genius. This upsets me. God didn't create me for the divine purpose of menial domestic tasks, or to be a dab hand with the Domestos, that I am sure of. Otherwise s/he would have made me good at it.
So I had a great idea for a pseudo-food post tonight, and now I only have a mere seven minutes in which to write and post it, before the hard-working "hubbie" gets home. Seven minutes is not enough time to post a thoughtful commentary on modern malaise but it is at least time enough for a mini-whinge. I feel like Sylvia Plath. If Sylvia Plath had had two demon Staffy's to contend with, she would have stuck her head in that damn oven much sooner than she did. We've got a fucking electric oven. Though I'm sure that I could stick a knife in the toaster if needs be.
Maybe that's why Sylvia wrote poetry. Cooking for her useless poet husband, cleaning up baby crap and keeping a dust-free mantlepiece left no time to actually write anything substantial. Hence poetry. The drive-thru equivalent of the literary arts. It doesn't need to rhyme, entertain or make any sense at all. In fact, any old dribble that meets those three basic criteria can be slapped out in five minutes and bear the mark of genius. Because no-one understands it and NO-ONE CARES. Throw in a couple of sinister-sounding metaphors, acquire a substance abuse habit, die young and tragically and be remembered as a tortured artiste. Anyone can do that.
There's no romance in domestic drudgery. Dinner served on time, clean sheets and spotless laminated surfaces. The stuff that eulogies are made of.
Sigh... I really feel like writing tonight. But I need to be a good and attentive housewife. If Sylvia couldn't do it, what chance do I have?
posted by Mel @ 6:25 PM
5 Comments:
"Conspiracy Theory"
Sylvia Plath's untimely demise was not the result of suicide. In fact, domestic chores were slowly lifting her from her melancholy.
It seems that Sylvia had discovered the joys of cleaning and domesticity. In fact, investigators discovered a partially completed new novel, "Sylvia's Helpful Household Hints" amongst her writings. Her death was a result of an unfortunate mixture of "Windex" and "EZ Off" oven cleaner. The fumes were lethal. Irony - to be struck down whilst doing the one thing she truly enjoyed.
It is a certainty that poets and academics beat investigating officers to the scene and removed her rubber gloves and apron. They put away all of the cleaning fluids that she had grown to so dearly love. Finally, they turned on the gas and left.
The tragedy was that Sylvia never met her true soul-mate - a truck driver named Gus who would have left her happily at home with her cleaning for days at a time, only to return to turn on the tube, kick his smelly feet up, and demand his dinner.
Fate is cruel . . .
I was like you in the beginning. Be careful, next you'll be actually peeling carrots and handing out your secret potato salad recipe to other envious housemaids..oops I mean wives.
You do know Sylvia Plath wrote a novel as well, don't you? It's called The Bell Jar, and I don't think it was about cleaning products OR Staffies.
Hey - I read the Bell Jar too you know. I spent the whole time wanting to smack her upside the head and tell her to get a fucking grip. Or a Staffy. I mean, they rip shit up all the time but they are always happy and very loving.
Aaah...she shits me.
Yeah, some people have no patience for Sylvia Plath. Don't know why.
I never read the Bell Jar, btw. Maybe I should.
Post a Comment
<< Home