what I write about
she has fallen and now she is awake
This concept that my standards are just too high. I expect too much. I’m just fussy.
You know, if I think bed linen should be washed more often than monthly, vacuuming the same, that washing up should actually remove the food and grease from dishes, that laundering should not leave my clothes in worse shape than before they went in the washing machine or that hanging up clothing should be done in such a way as to let them dry.
That is not fuss. It is not unreasonable. It’s having fucking standards and it’s having to think about them because apparently being in possession of a penis renders one incapable of cleanliness, hygiene or the ability to learn how to do a job.
The really fucking galling bit? Others can have such high expectations of me, but I’m not supposed to have them myself? Oh that’s right, I’m supposed to ignore them, or be graceful and witty in the face of their pitying disgust at my lack of housekeeping skills. Like the time my mother-in-law persistently queried me about the washing up in spite of being told repeatedly that I did not do the washing up. Ever. Wolfman did it, it was his job, talk to him about it piling up. But no, it’s my responsibility even when I don’t do it. Like everything within the household sphere apparently.