Well, I knew it was a matter of time. The hubby declared today that I’m wasting my time. I’m just being lazy, playing around on this computer all the time, instead of taking care of my family. That’s not his job, you understand. How can a man be expected to clean up after himself, and care for his child? That would interrupt the watching of cable-tv, the highest calling for all the male gender.
The nurturing crap is my job. I’m the woman. (How is doing dishes nurturing? What studies have been conducted, to prove that only women can clean a litterbox properly?) But I have the nerve to not be barefoot (Okay, I am right now, but you know what I mean) or pregnant, or in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove in 100 degree heat. How dare I?
How dare I presume to write? To think that maybe, my personal thoughts might be worth expressing, that someone–some man, I guess, since women don’t count–might enjoy reading my book. The nerve, to believe someone might actually pay for the privilege of reading my book–which is about a WOMAN!!!!
Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe he just thinks I should have everything perfect in the house, and the munchkin happily occupied at something fulfilling and educational and not messy, before I go to the computer. I mean, how long could that take?
It has to be possible. All other women on the planet take perfect care of houses, husbands, and children, right? And then have the time and energy to grow as human beings?
I have to remember that he must watch tv whenever he’s awake. Cardiac arrest could result if he looks away from the little screen for more time than it takes to slap together a sandwich. That’s why he can’t wipe the counter off when he’s done. And I don’t want him to die, do I?