‘My New Years Resolution’

This article is dedicated to those of you who hate company but were afraid to admit it.

There is no question that the festive season brings with it an ample share of social gatherings and undoubtedly the majority of men somehow managed to avoid making any work contribution. This is the true miracle of the season.

No matter how liberated women believe themselves to be throughout the year, all gains for equal rights evaporate with the simple phrase, “company’s coming.”

In my mother’s house, that single, small phrase would send one kid on a search for the vacuum, another for the furniture polish and finally, I would gather up the four corners of the dining room tablecloth and haul the offending accumulation of junk away.

“Don’t stow it in the hall closet,” my mother would warn, “that’s for their coats.” (So that’s where you put coats?)

In the centre of this frenzied attack on our dust bunnies would be my father. He had worked hard all week, this was mom’s work, not his. Sounds archaic? Consider this: one of my inlaws recently had her mother babysit for a coupled of hours, both the mother and daughter have standards of housekeeping that are rivaled only by intensive care units nation-wide. When the babysitting was over, the daughter found a discreet, hand-written note tucked under her polished and crumb-free toaster. It read, “Your refrigerator needs defrosting, Mother.” If her mother babysat for me she could write a novel. She’d have to hide the book under the bed.

But the main point is this, when was the last time anyone sneered at or constructively criticized the man of the house for his domestic mismanagement? It’s the woman of the house, no matter how many other careers or ambitions, who must still bear the burden of domestic responsibilities.

I only ever knew one man who approached housework as both an art and a science; my maternal grandfather. He was a tall, strong, quiet man whose motto seemed to be ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’. Once while visiting, he remarked that our house was so dusty, he could draw a map of the world on our living room end table”. My mother, sloppy perhaps but never without feelings responded, “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t know enough geography.”

It’s not to be denied – every woman has her breaking point and I’ll wager that housework harbours more repressed anger and guilt than any divorce court.

It is this social expectation that has forced me to abandon almost all entertaining. It’s bad enough that I don’t have a Cuisinart to julienne my carrots and puree my dip but must I also endure the looks of disgust when guests discover that my tile grout has mildew?

My relatives assure me that they don’t mind. These relatives each have homes where you could eat off their floors. You could eat off my floors too and not lose a pound for a week. It doesn’t matter how they console, their kids give them away. “Auntie Brenda,” they whine menacingly, “What’s the brown thing under the couch?”

“Is it moving?” I ask. No? Then, even more timidly, “Is the cat trying to bury it?”

You’ll notice that they didn’t ask their Uncle.

I’ve suffered enough shame and embarrassment. If society eventually votes to offer wages for housework, I’ll starve to death. Fire me or let me happily resign.

Now, for my New Year’s Resolution: I have decided to actively assist in the liberation of all women from the oppressive yoke of domestic duties. From now on, I’m going to make it a point to sidle up to the host of each and every party, look meaningfully into their eyes and whisper, “Great party but you toilet bowl needs a bit of a scrub.”

HAPPY NEW YEAR! And I sincerely hope the forgoing article won’t in any way hinder my chances of employment with the Cute Kate Cleaning Company.